


Less Than Perfect

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, Prejudice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick Kane has been a carrier all of his life.  He hasn't allowed himself to think much about what that means, until, suddenly, he has the opportunity to do something about the way that carriers are treated.  Not write it on a sign and picket abortion clinics or write an article or hold a press conference.  But, do this.  Have a baby.  Be a father.  Play hockey.  All of it.  Show them that it can be done.  That a carrier can do everything.  Play hockey, be a good father, have all of it.  Just like everyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Less Than Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this came to me in October 2010, but I didn’t actually start writing it until a few months ago. So, it takes place during the 2010-11 season. Dates and events are as accurate as possible. This story has always been really close to me. I really wanted to do two things with it: first, explain Kaner’s lackluster performance during the first half of the 2010-11 season; and second, write an mpreg story without any of the mpreg stereotypes. I hope this accomplishes both of those things.
> 
> Please note that there is one scene, about halfway through, that might trigger anyone sensitive to violence, fights, or people being beaten up (not Kaner, promise). It’s a short scene, and can be skipped. 
> 
> There are times in this where Jonny (and Bur, actually) doesn’t come off the best, but he’s just going through some shit, so give him a break.
> 
> Thank you to [pikasafire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pikasafire) for the wonderful [mix](http://8tracks.com/pikasafire/less-than-perfect) and [artwork](http://fav.me/d6rd8o0):
> 
>  

“Sharpie, come on, let me in.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Jesus, asshole, I’m coming.” Sharpie rolls off the couch, taking a long draw from his beer as he opens the door. “What?”

“Took long enough,” Bur mutters, pushing his way into the apartment and grabbing the beer from Sharpie’s hand, finishing it off.

“Want another one?” Sharpie raises an eyebrow.

“Yes. No.”

“Okay.” Sharpie says, slowly.

“No,” Bur decides.

“Whatever.” Sharpie shrugs, grabbing another bottle from the fridge and opening it for himself. “What’s with you? You look-” He stops, searching for words, settling on, “uglier than usual.”

“I’m going to Dallas.”

“Okay,” Sharpie repeats. He had assumed that Bur would be heading back to Madison once they all finally sobered up, but Dallas is a nice town, so Sharpie can get on board with that. “Dallas is a nice place. Hear they have good BBQ. And a great football team.”

“I’m not-” Bur stares at him like he’s the dumbest fuck around, which, Sharpie’s been drunk for a fort night, so no one can blame him for being a little slow at the moment. Except Bur, apparently. “Jesus, Sharpie, I’m not going to _visit_.”

“Oh. Um.” Sharpie tries, because today is June 1st. It’s June 1st, and Sharpie had forgotten. Actually, honest-to-God forgotten, because they’ve already lost Buff and Sopes and Steegs, and Sharpie had been naïve enough to think that that was enough. More than. “Dallas?”

“Yeah.”

“Fucking Dallas?”

“Yes,” Bur grits out, anger growing to match Sharpie’s.

Sharpie scoffs. “So, what? You win a Cup, and then, see ya?”

Bur flinches as if Sharpie punched him and Sharpie is tempted to do it, if only to give Bur a legitimate reason to act the way he’s acting. “It’s not like that,” Bur insists, his voice small and wounded and so un-Bur like that Sharpie does reach out, but before he can hit him, Bur’s pushing Sharpie back against the kitchen counter. The granite pushes into his lower back and Sharpie hisses, trying to push Bur away but managing nothing more than to have Bur grab his wrists and hold them back, against the counter.

“Fuck you.” Bur spits. “Fuck. You.”

“Already done that to yourself.”

“Jesus Christ. You really think so little of me? After all this time?”

Sharpie feels something curl, angry and red in his stomach, and shrugs. “You’re the one giving up.”

“Giving up?” Bur repeats, laughing bitterly. His hand tightens around Sharpie’s wrists, tight enough to bruise. “Stan didn’t want me. He didn’t call. He didn’t fight for me. And I have enough self-respect left to take the hint.”

Sharpie doesn’t want to hear it. He bucks his hips, trying to get Bur off him, but Bur presses him further into the counter, and Sharpie can feel Bur’s erection through their jeans. Sharpie bites back a moan, toothing his bottom lip, but Bur must hear it, because his eyes go wide and dark he and pushes even closer.

“Do you really,” Bur starts, voice dropping deep and dangerous as he presses his lips to Sharpie’s ear, “think that I didn’t have incentive to stay?” And then their lips are crashing together. Two years of tension and frustration and pretending not to care come to the fore as teeth click and lips press together, bruising and desperate, until Sharpie wrenches away to pant in the crook of Bur’s neck.

Bur moans, arching his hips and using his leverage to fuck between Sharpie’s legs, his dick hard and pressing painfully against the zipper of his jeans. It’s too much, and he releases Sharpie’s hands to get the zipper down on both their pants. He uses one hand to shimmy his jeans half-way down his thighs and the other to push Sharpie’s jeans just far enough apart so that when he thrusts forward his dick fucks into the hollow of Sharpie’s hip.

It’s nothing and everything that Sharpie’s wanted and he groans, spreading his legs to give Bur more space to move. He pulls his hands free of Bur’s grasp and pushes them under his shirt, pressing against the warmth of Bur’s lower back before slipping between his jeans and his boxers and using both hands to push Bur forward. Bur moans, low and dark, and his hips lose any sort of rhythm. His thrusts are harsh and angry, pushing Sharpie harder into the counter, and Sharpie tries to meet him, tries to match his angle and blindly stab at friction, to little success.

“Fuck, fuck, Patrick-” Bur chokes off his name and Sharpie watches as his eyes close and his mouth opens and his whole body locks under Sharpie’s hands. They rest like that for a minute, Bur breathing heavily into Sharpie’s neck, until the silence is too much and Bur’s skin feels cold and clammy and Sharpie pulls his hands away, awkward and stilted, and he suddenly wants to be anywhere but here. 

Bur steps back, but doesn’t look at him, and Sharpie struggles to button his jeans around his still-aching erection. He doesn’t look back as he grabs for his keys and pushes out the door.

***

The guys are dancing, making a drunken, ridiculous, flailing circle around Buff, who actually has rhythm and never lets anyone forget it. Pat’s watching them from the bar, half-hard. Has been for days, adrenaline and the lack of food and sleep and anything but an overwhelming, “fuck, yeah, we won,” rushing through him with a shot of vodka added in here and there.

“She’s hot.”

Pat tenses, feeling Jonny’s breath, sticky with beer and sweat, brush against his ear. Pat follows Jonny’s glance, noticing the blond in the group to the right of Buff’s circle, and he tries to look like he’s been looking at her all long. “She’s mine, asshole. Keep your paws off.”

Jonny raises his hands, turning the ‘she’s all yours’ gesture into a call for more beer from the bartender. “All yours. She’s not my type, anyway.”

Pat rolls his eyes. “She’s everyone’s type.” The bartender is in front of Jonny, and, needing something a hell of a lot stronger than beer to get through this night, he shakes his head as Jonny orders for him. “Vodka. And cranberry. Don’t say a word,” he adds at Jonny before Jonny even has a chance to chirp him.

Jonny just shrugs. “Whatever you want, dude. Drink long island ice teas out of the Cup all night for all I care.” Pat pauses for a moment, because that sounds like a fantastic idea, and Jonny elbows him in the side, laughing. “When was the last time you slept?”

Pat shrugs. “Yesterday. The day before? Stop asking hard questions.”

“Right.” Jonny accepts their drinks and hands Pat’s his. “Maybe this should be it for the night, ehh?”

“Fuck you, you’re not my mother,” which even Pat knows is a lame comeback, but then his phone buzzes and he glances down.

 _where r u_

“Awesome, Sharpie’s coming,” Pat says as he taps back, _@ the shrine coooooooome_. 

“Thought he was taking the night off.” Jonny frowns.

Pat shrugs. “Maybe he missed us.”

Jonny looks doubtful.

When Sharpie gets there, he makes a beeline to the bar and takes the drink from Pat’s hand before saying anything. “Rude much?” Pat asks, as Sharpie hands him the now-empty glass.

Sharpie shrugs. “Needed some electrolytes.” And that’s a nice line. Pat’s still kind of annoyed, but he wishes he had thought of it earlier, when Jonny was giving him shit for buying a drink full of cranberries, and he has to give Sharpie credit for that. 

“Hi, Sharpie,” Jonny says, pointedly, and Sharpie nods at him. Which is when Pat notices Sharpie’s wild-eyed expression and takes a closer look, at the way Sharpie’s shirt is catching across his chest and his jeans are sticking to his thighs and, Jesus, doing nothing to hide the hint of an erection. Pat swallows.

Sharpie notices, because when Pat looks up, he’s smirking. “Dance?”

“Right. Sorry. Yeah, okay.” Pat’s babbling and Sharpie laughs, grabbing his hand.

“See ya Captain.”

“Be safe,” Jonny yells after them, because he’s an asshole. 

Pat’s lost track of time, and drinks, when he feels breath on his neck and he looks up to see Sharpie looking at him, eyes large and glassy, pupils dilated, half-smirk on his lips. “Everyone’s left,” he whispers, grasping Pat’s hip to steady himself and leaning as close as he can. Pat can feel Sharpie’s thigh between his legs and he moans, low and breathy and he doesn’t argue when Sharpie takes the glass from his hand and puts it on the tray of a passing waitress. 

“Fuck, Kaner, you’re so hot tonight.”

Pat shakes his head, but Sharpie pulls him closer, his erection pulsing hotly against Pat’s hip, and Pat doesn’t bite back his groan. 

“My place?” Sharpie asks, breathless and pleading and desperate in a way that surprises Pat more then the question does. 

And Pat wants it – wants _Sharpie_ \- just as desperately, just as unexpectedly. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the image of Jonny walking out with that girl from the bar, maybe it’s the adrenalin and the hormones and the arousal that have been coursing through him since he scored the OT goal eight days ago, but Pat whimpers, “Please.” 

Sharpie grins – a shit-eating, predatory, seductive grin that settles in Pat’s dick – and holds out his hand. Pat takes it.

***

Carriers  
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

 **Carrier** refers to a small segment of the population with XY chromosomes who can carry children. Discovered by Fredrik Hegle and Josef Gastlin at the University of Berlin in the 1970s, scientists believe that carriers developed in the late 20th century, when a specific dormant gene was first activated during meiosis. Although scientists do not as yet know why the gene was activated when it was, general opinions tie it to evolutionary missteps catalyzed by global warming, the increase of greenhouse gases, and biological warfare during the World Wars.

Although carriers look similar to male humans, they tend to be smaller in height and weight. Estimates in 2008 put carriers at 3% of the population, highly concentrated in China and Southeast Asia, but extending across the Globe.

In 170 of the 195 countries of the world, **carrier laws** restrict carrier rights. In 50 countries, all male children are genetically tested, and carriers are housed in rural work camps. In all of these, as well as a dozen or so other countries, it is illegal for a carrier to birth a child. Although a few countries allow carriers to bring their children to term, these babies are then the possession of the state. In the United States, Canada, and the UK, carriers may have children, but their rights are severely restricted.

***

Pat goes back to Chicago two weeks before training camp starts. Normally, he’d stay home a little longer, but he feels like his hangover has a hangover. Jonny’s been texting him for weeks, reminders about work-outs and strength conditioning and, for the most part, Pat’s been following them, but he still feels tired and sluggish and he knows it’s going to take longer than usual to get back into shape. It’s seems like a better plan to do it in Chicago than in Buffalo, where he’s less distracted by his family and forced to focus by Jonny’s player-only pre-pre-season practices.

“You and Captain Serious up your work-outs this summer?”

Pat raises an eyebrow at Seabs and wraps his towel tighter around his waist. Seabs just raises an eyebrow. “You’ve both filled out. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” 

Pat can’t deny it. His eyes automatically find Jonny across the locker room, dressed in a pair of black boxer-briefs that do nothing to hide the new definition in his thighs, and Pat swallows, blushing and forcing himself to look up at Seabs. “We’re growing boys.”

“Uh huh.”

Pat rolls his eyes as he hurries to dress because, sure, he has no problem believing that Jonny spent his two months in Winnipeg doing weights and cross-training. Pat, on the other hand, spent his two months in Buffalo flying high on their Cup win, drinking too many cranberry vodkas, fucking a few blonde waitresses, and sleeping in. Any weight that he’s gained has more to do with his mother’s homemade mac and cheese, and fuck-all to do with muscle development. 

Pat can’t even fake surprise when the first thing they do at training camp is send him to the team nutritionist. 

***

“Hey, Patrick, take a seat.”

Julie Burns’ office is exactly what you’d expect from a nutritionist. The walls are covered in brightly colored posters, showing things like “The Food Pyramid,” “Healthy Purple Vegetables,” and “Good Sources of Protein.” Kaner takes a minute to look at the second one; he’s pretty sure that, if pressed, he wouldn’t be able to name a single purple vegetable. Except eggplant. He might be able to get that one.

“Patrick?”

“Yeah, sorry.” He pulls his eyes away from the poster and takes the seat in front of Julie’s desk. He nods at the posters. “Those are a little distracting.”

She laughs. “I barely even notice they’re there anymore.” She turns back to her desk, flipping open a manila folder. “So, Mike told me that you’re having a little trouble getting into game shape.”

That’s a much nicer way of putting it than Mike Gapski had put it to Pat, but he nods. “Yeah. It was a short summer.” He shrugs.

She flashes him a smile. “You’re not the only one in here, don’t worry. They call it a  
Cup hangover for a reason, right?”

“Ahh, yeah.” He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. The way she’s looking at him is unnerving, and he has the distinct feeling that she spends too much time on Deadspin. He gives her his best crooked smile, the one he uses at bars and clubs and fan meet-and-greets. “Cut down on the beer, got it.”

“Well, that’s a start,” she tells him, totally deadpan. “I’ve factored two beers in every week.”

“Two?”

“Three, if you eat a salad for lunch on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.”

Pat stares at her. “What’s the other option?”

She smiles, smugly, and flips a piece of paper around for him to see. He leans forward. It looks like something Jonny would make, with his meals and snacks broken down by day and time and calorie count. “This, of course, will change as your trainers assess your progress.” She points to a column on the bottom, labeled ‘optional snacks.’

Pat pulls the paper towards him and his frown deepens. “I don’t know how to make low-fat chicken and pea risotto.”

“Don’t worry about that. We have you on the full meal delivery service. Your lunches and dinners will be brought to your house every morning. All you need to worry about are breakfasts and snacks.”

“Huh. If I had known prepared meals were the reward, I’d have slacked off every summer,” he smirks back, taking the schedule from the desk and folding it in fourths to fit it into his back pocket.

“I don’t recommend it.” She hands him the rest of the folder. “Read that. If you have any questions, come find me.” She glances at the clock. “You have a meeting with Mike in 15 minutes – show him the schedule.” She stands up and he follows, shaking her hand. 

“Thanks.”

She shrugs. “It’s my job. I’ll have you back in shape in no time.”

Pat’s meeting with Mike Gapski isn’t any easier. Though at least he doesn’t bother handing Pat his workout schedule, just tells him to hop on the treadmill and run until he’s told to stop. He’s about twenty minutes in when Duncs and Seabs enter, dressed in shorts and t-shirts and carrying manila folders of their own.

“You too?” He asks, nodding at the folders.

Seabs places his towel on the treadmill next to Pat’s and starts his warm-up on a fast walk. “We’re getting pre-made meals. Delivered to our front door. So-” Seabs shrugs.

“Right?” Pat takes a short sip of water and wipes the sweat off the back of his neck. “Not a bad deal.”

“You’re not going to be saying that when I’m done with you.” Mike leans over Pat’s machine and increases his speed by half a point.

“Fuck,” Pat gasps, his chest pounding as he struggles to catch his breathe and settle into the faster pace.

“If you can talk, you can run faster,” Mike tells him, singsong, as he walks away.

“Slave driver,” Seabs murmurs. 

Pat tries to answer, but speaking takes breathing and he doesn’t seem able to do that right now. He settles on nodding his agreement.

***

“Kaner.”

Pat nods at Seabs from under the barbell as he grunts. It’s heavy, heavier than he’d normally try, but he does another rep before dropping the bar into its slot with a loud clink and a groan. He hadn’t realized how badly he was sweating until he sits up, and pulls his shirt away from his skin, frowning. He takes the towel and Gatorade Seabs hands him.

“Isn’t that more than Mike has you down for?” Seabs is looking at the weights on the end of the barbell, but Pat just shrugs.

“I can handle it.”

“This isn’t a competition.” Pat raises an eyebrow, and Seabs smirks. “Yeah, sorry, that was a dumb thing to say.”

“You think?”

“But, really,” Seabs tries again, letting the smirk slide off his face. “Don’t push yourself too hard. You won’t do anyone any good if you get injured.”

Pat rubs the towel over his face, so that he doesn’t have to look up. “I’m not doing the team any good now.”

“Pat-”

“Drop it.” He stands up and his arms feel weak and limp, so he lets the towel drop to the floor. “The nutrition plan, Mike’s fitness plan, they’re working for you. You’re back to normal. They’re not working for me. So, just, drop it.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer as he heads over to the treadmill and sets a punishing pace.

***

The thing is, Pat’s following the plans. He’s eating the stupid organic meals. He’s drinking protein shakes for snacks. He’s working out every day, just like he’s supposed to, more than he’s supposed to. He’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to be doing. Except, it’s not working. 

It’s not even so much the weight. He’s been in the gym enough lately that he can shrug the weight off as increased muscle mass. It’s just- He doesn’t feel right. He’s tired, falling asleep on the couch while watching _Ellen_ every afternoon, even though he’s sleeping eight hours every night. On the ice, his feet feel slower, and he feels sluggish even when he’s off-ice. 

Everyone’s starting to notice. The trainers are grumbling behind his back, accusing him, only somewhat jokingly, about sneaking jumbo-sized Snickers at night. The ribbing from his teammates has taken on a more frustrated, serious edge than usual, and Coach Q has demoted him to the third line in practice.

He’s bitching about it, pressed between Sharpie and Jonny in a booth at The Pony, three days before their first regular season game. “It’s not fair, you know? I’m doing all the things. Even eating the green shit that comes in those box-meal-things. What even is kale anyway?”

Jonny ignores the question, instead nodding at the half-drunken beer in Pat’s hand. “How many is that?”

Pat shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Four?”

Jonny gives him an entire lecture about calories and following his nutrition plan in one raised eyebrow and Pat scowls, tipping his head back and finishing the beer in one swallow. He’s almost entirely doing what he’s supposed to, so, “fuck you.” As if Jonny needs any other reason to scowl.

“I’m going home.” It’s a redundant comment, seeing as Jonny’s putting his coat on and has his keys jingling in his hand, and it’s pointed particularly at Patrick, who ignores him in favor of waving their waitress over.

“Two more, then close our tab,” Sharpie tells her, before Pat can jump in, and hands his credit card over at the same time. Pat wants to argue, because, since when the fuck is Sharpie as uptight as Jonny is, but then Sharpie’s hand squeezes his knee and, oh.

Pat swallows. “I’m, ahh, I’m good. If you wanna go. Now, I mean.”

Sharpie smirks. “We just ordered a round.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t fit with my diet.”

“We’ll balance it out with a kale smoothie in the morning.”

It’s so- forward and assuming and funny, and Pat feels pleasantly buzzed, his whole side warm where Sharpie’s pressed against him, shoulder to hip to ankle. Sharpie leans impossibly forward, whisper humid and breathy against Pat’s ear. “One more?”

Pat swallows, shifting and pressing his knee into Sharpie’s hand. “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

They make it back to Sharpie’s place before he presses Pat up against the door and kisses him, but it’s a near thing. If Pat wasn’t sick of his name on Deadspin, he would have grabbed Sharpie back at the bar, possibly gotten him off right there, under the table, wet and messy and, Jesus, Pat’s hot just thinking about it. He’s half-hard before Sharpie’s hand is at his waist, flipping open the button on his jeans and palming, briefly, at the head of his dick before pushing his hand up to lie flat on Pat’s stomach.

Pat breaths in, deeply, dropping his head against the door and twitching under Sharpie’s hand. “Don’t. I’m not- I was in better shape. Before. Last Spring.”

Sharpie raises an eyebrow, catching Pat’s eyes as he drop to his knees, bunching Pat’s shirt up and licking a trail to the top of his boxers. “Worried about how your figure will look in the fall collection?”

“Asshole,” Pat murmurs, but then Sharpie mouths the head of his dick through his boxers, and Pat forgets to be worried about his weight and his sluggishness and whatever the fuck is wrong with him. Pat twists his fingers in Sharpie’s hair and closes his eyes until all there is is Sharpie, smelling fucking amazing and doing this little twist thing with his tongue that has Pat whimpering much too quickly.

“Bed,” he groans out, pulling on Sharpie’s hair and, with a valiant effort, pulling his hips away from Sharpie’s mouth. “Jesus. Bed.”

Sharpie grins up at him, wrapping his hand around Pat’s dick and pulling, once, before releasing him. Pat moves forward, chasing Sharpie’s hand, without thinking, and gets a smirk in return. “Patience, Peeks.”

“Fuck you.” Sharpie laughs, and Pat pulls at his pants, holding them just far enough up to make it to the bedroom. “Seriously, fuck you,” he throws over his shoulder as he rounds the doorway, pleased to see Sharpie jog to catch up.

“Other way around.” Sharpie goes immediately to the bedside table, dropping his shirt on the way, and holding up the lube and condom that he finds there. Suddenly, Pat is assaulted by memories; images of Sharpie, sweaty and tired and wrecked, in this very room, pulling that same bottle of lube from the nightstand and spreading it on his fingers as he had smirked, lips red and wet and swollen. Pat had been so far gone that he had barely been able to participate, and definitely hadn’t been able to argue, hadn’t even noticed the lack of condom, and now- Jesus.

“Peeks?” Sharpie is frowning, his hands stopped at the button on his own jeans, looking aroused and hopeful and worried, and Pat shakes his head, unwilling to let the memories keep him from enjoying this.

“Yeah, I’m good, I just-” He wracks his brain, throws out the first thing he grasps. “I’ve been jerking off to this. All summer.”

Sharpie smirks. “Works, right?”

Pat isn’t sure if he means them, together, as a jerk-off fantasy, or as a thing, or what, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, man. Perfect.”

“I know. We should have been doing this months ago.”

Which- God, Pat almost wishes that were true. Wishes that it could just be them, him and Sharpie, without Bur and Jonny the unspoken, yet acknowledged, ghosts between them, separating them even as they stretch out on the bed, skin touching skin, legs and arms and mouths pressed together, and Pat doesn’t know what he wants. From himself. From Jonny. From Sharpie. From any of it.

It’s too much, and the only thing he knows for sure is that Sharpie is touching him and looking at him as if this is it, all there is, and Pat can play along. Because he’s hard and Sharpie’s groaning and Pat wants to hear more of that. He gets his hand wrapped around them both, pulling and stroking and squeezing until Sharpie rolls away with obvious effort to put the condom on.

“Okay?” He asks, his pupils dilated with arousal, and if Pat wasn’t so turned on he’d consider fucking with him a little bit. As it stands, Pat isn’t going to last long, and he rolls them over before sinking onto Sharpie’s dick with a smirk. 

Sharpie throws his head back, fingers scrambling for Pat’s hips, digging into muscle and bone and holding him there as his hips jerk, shallow and unsteady. “Fucker,” he murmurs, and Pat grins as he lifts up slightly and sinks back down. “Jesus,” Sharpie breathes, tightening his fingers and bracing his feet on the bed to thrust up and mirror Pat’s movements. “Fuck, you’re- God, Pat.”

Pat leans back, adjusting the angle and grinning. “I know I am.”

“Ugh,” Sharpie groans out, his breath hitching as Pat twists his hips. Sharpie’s cheeks are red, his thighs sweaty on Pat’s back, and his arms are shaking with the effort of thrusting from this position. He holds Pat carefully as he flips them, stretching out between Pat’s spread knees and thrusting experimentally. Pat moans, pressing up off the mattress, and Sharpie leans down to press words to Pat’s mouth. “We’re done talking.”

***

Pat wears a hoodie, pulled close over his eyes, as he wanders the aisles of CVS. It’s as far from both the UC and his house as he can get while still being in the city, but he’s just won the Stanley Cup and he wasn’t exactly quiet about media appearances over the summer, so he’s not willing to bet on no one in the store recognizing him. He meanders up and down, throwing things into his basket as he goes, somehow hoping that the deodorant and Snickers bar will mask what he’s really here to buy.

He walks back and forth across the front of the aisle before a sales clerk looks up and asks him, “Can I help you find anything, sir?”

Pat ducks and shakes his head at the same time, before slipping into the aisle and staring. He hadn’t considered the fact that there are a whole three shelves of pregnancy tests. Each claims to be “the most accurate” or “the quickest result” or “the easiest to use.” Finally, Pat settles on one in a green box that claims to be “as accurate as a doctor’s test,” because it’s not pink and because Pat really doesn’t want to go through this again at a real doctor’s office.

He dumps his purchases on the checkout counter, not even sparing a glance at the clerk. He doesn’t answer her when she asks him, “Is that all?,” either, because he’s worried that she might recognize his voice from the post-game interview that has apparently been circulating around Chicago these last four months.

He takes the bag and leaves the store as quickly as he can. He glances around when he’s outside, and, when he sees no one, he slips the test into the pocket of his sweatshirt and dumps the rest into the garbage can. There’s a bar across the street and he enters.

It’s early afternoon on a Thursday, so the place is pretty empty. Pat slips into a booth near the back. The waitress comes over and he orders a beer and burger without asking for a menu. He’s half-worried that she’s going to ask for his ID, but she just scribbles his order down and brings his beer back a moment later.

Pat stares at it for a moment, wishing he could take a sip or three to calm his nerves, but he knows that he’d never be able to keep it down. Taking a deep breath, he gets up and finds the men’s restroom. There are two stalls, but both are empty, but he double-checks just to make sure.

He pulls out the test and he knows that there must be directions on the back, but his eyes are blurry and his hand is shaking and he can’t make out any of the words. But, sixteen-year-old girls figure this out all the time, so it can’t be that hard. He pulls out the stick and it feels lighter than it should for something with so much power. 

It seems to take forever. He stares at it, willing it to be something, and then he realizes that he doesn’t even know what that something is. He digs the box out of the trash and forces his hand to straighten long enough to read that a pink plus-sign means that he’s pregnant and-

Pat feels numb. He pushes the test from the sink into the trash but, when he looks down, it’s glaring back at him, white stick and pastel pink plus-sign looking up at him like some damning church sign, and he lurches to the paper towel dispenser. It’s one of those that you have to wave your hand in front of, and he waves his arms franticly back and forth until it dispenses half a roll and then Pat throws the whole wad on top of the trash, only satisfied when the pink plus-sign is buried half-way down the can.

Behind him, the door opens, and Pat jumps as if he’s been caught doing something illicit and wrong and damning, and isn’t that just the most depressing thing because, according to most of the country, what he is is all of those things. 

He glances over at the guy who just entered, who’s already in front of the urinal, dick in his hand. He must feel Pat’s gaze, because he half turns his head and frowns. “What, man?”

“Nothing, nothing I’m sorry, I’m-” Pat doesn’t finish his rushed apology as he trips on himself to get out the door. He’s feeling lightheaded and strange and it’s funny, because all he’s feeling is confused. And he wants to call his mom, wants to call Jackie, wants to talk to Jonny and beg him for the forgiveness that he knows he’s gonna need, but he can’t do any of that. No one can know. No one can ever know, not that he’s in love with Jonny, not that he’s what he is, not that he’s- fuck, no one can ever know that he fucked up and got pregnant, again.

Slumping back into his seat, Pat bypasses his hamburger for the beer, and he tips his head back, taking a long swig that he hopes will do something to numb the swell of pictures in his mind: his mother, looking so goddamned disappointed; Johnny, bumping his shoulder and grinning at him in the locker room; Sharpie, shirtless and grinning at him, hair mussed and in his eyes and laughing at Pat as he kisses him and . . . Jesus, fuck. 

Pat knocks his chair over as he runs to the bathroom, pushing the door open with a loud thump and ignoring the glance from the dude who hasn’t left the urinal yet, and then he’s on his knees, ignoring the grime and the graffiti as he tries to remember those videos that he used to watch in health class. A finger, that’s all it takes they say, and Pat glances at his fingers – the middle’s the longest, and he pushes it down his throat. It takes three tries, but then he’s gripping the seat and the beer is coming back up.

In retrospect, a few sips of beer probably wouldn’t do that much harm, not compared with the binges he went on in the first months of his pregnancy, when he thought he was having the summer of his life, with no idea what he was carrying with him. But, knowing, now, he can’t stand it. When he’s done, he flushes, the smell threatening to repeat the experience, and then he doesn’t know what to do. His muscles are shaking, the back of his shirt damp with sweat, his nose running and his eyes blurry.

***

**The New York Times  
Sunday Review | The Opinion Pages**

Editorial  
Logan Wentworth

For those of you who read this column regularly, you know that I am a jaded individual. I’m a psychology professor at Columbia University, a scientist with three kids and a regular marriage. I am resigned to the realities of modern life.

Between my courses and my private practice, I have met every kind of person in the past thirty years. I care about my students and my patients, in the abstract, distanced manner adopted by most scientists. 

Six months ago, I met an extraordinary young man. His name is Matt. He came to my office, six months pregnant, having just been expelled from his PhD program at NYU for being a carrier. It’s a story I’ve heard many times before and, usually, I would have just handed him a business card for an adoption agency and sent him on his way.

Matt was different. The first thing he said to me was, “I’m Matt, I’m a carrier, and I’m proud of it,” and handed me a copy of the New York State Carrier Rights Bill. In the thirteen months since the Bill was passed, I have not known a single carrier who maintained custody of his child. Some don’t want to. Some want to, but know that societal prejudice will keep them from providing adequately for their children, and give them up. The lucky of these go to grandparents or in-laws, never to learn of their true parentage. The unlucky ones go into the foster system.

Matt was determined to keep his child. After talking to him for a few weeks, I knew that he was both stubborn and smart enough to do it. He knew his rights, he knew the law, and, for nine months, he stood up to county courts, hostile media, and violent protesters. When the baby was born, I told him to leave New York, to go to some place quiet and safe. He refused. New York was his home, had always been, and he believed that, deep down, it was a good place habited by good people.

Two weeks ago, Matt was killed. It was eight o’clock on a Thursday, barely past dusk, and he was on his way home from the grocery store when he was jumped. Six hours later, he succumbed to his injuries. He is survived by his three-month old daughter, Elana. 

I wish I could say that this story won’t happen again. It will. Some other, young, brilliant boy will stand up and decide to try again, and I hope things will end differently. I have little faith that they will. I am sorry to say that I am a New Yorker tonight.

***

Pat hasn’t exactly started to enjoy waking up on bathroom floors, curled into himself and pressing his feverish cheek to the cool, white floor tiles, but he’s getting used to it. It’s been weeks of this, which was fine when they were playing a long stretch of home games. But now they’re on a West Coast swing and this is the third morning that Pat’s woken up with his stomach rolling and has had to run to the bathroom while trying not to wake Jonny. Jonny hasn’t said anything yet, but Pat’s not surprised when the door pushes open as he’s wiping his mouth with a washcloth.

“Kaner-?”

Pat doesn’t look up as he fills a cup with water and gargles it quickly. “I’m fine.”

Jonny looks like he wants to back out of the room, forget this whole thing and go back to bed, but he’s Pat’s Captain and Pat’s best friend and Jonny’s always been too honorable to drop something like this. “You’re not.”

“It’s just the flu or something.”

Jonny frowns. “It’s not the flu. You’re always fine by practice.”

“I said ‘or something.’”

“Kaner-” Pat looks up to catch Jonny’s worried eyes in the mirror and he sighs.

“Look, I’m really okay. See?” He holds out his arms for Jonny to look him over. Jonny sweeps his eyes over Pat’s body, and Pat prays that Jonny isn’t attuned enough to Pat’s body to notice the slight swell of his stomach. Jonny frowns and Pat wishes that he was wearing more than boxers.

“I think you should see a trainer.”

“No need. Because, you see, I’m fine.”

“You’re not. And, actually,” Jonny sets his feet apart and crosses his arms and Pat groans. “This isn’t a request. I’m insisting that you see Mike.”

“No.”

Jonny groans in frustration and rolls his neck as if he’s feeling as tense and awkward about this conversation as Pat is. “I’m not actually giving you a choice here.”

“And I don’t answer to you.”

Jonny raises an eyebrow. “Except you do, asshole.”

“Fuck you.” Pat tries to push past Jonny, but Jonny blocks the door and Pat just ends up sitting on the closed toilet seat to keep himself from falling over. It’s cold and he curls in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest and glaring at Jonny. “Let me out of this bathroom.”

“No.”

“Fucker.”

Jonny shuffles his feet and drops his arms to his sides, shaking his head in confusion as his voice gentles. “Pat, what’s going on? The trainers could help. Do you want to keep being sick?”

“Of course I don’t.” Pat glares. “It’s just-” He sighs. “There’s nothing they can do. It’ll go away on it’s own. Just- just leave it alone, okay?”

“No.” Jonny shakes his head. “Look, I’ve woken up the last three days in a row to find you here,” he motions to the bathroom. “And you’re obviously not okay, so, no, I’m not gonna leave it.”

Pat has been in love with Jonny long enough to be an expert on reading him and he knows this stance, this look, this tone of voice, and he knows he’s not going to get out of this bathroom until Jonny knows exactly what’s going on. And, truthfully, Pat’s tired of hiding this, tired of trying to figure this out on his own. Part of him just wants Jonny to tell him what to do, to give him an order and, before Pat can think better of it, he whispers, “I’m pregnant.”

Jonny gapes at him and, yeah, Pat doesn’t know what else he expected. He sighs and keeps talking, keeping his voice slow and even until Jonny can join him. “Fourteen weeks. I, um, I don’t know how it happened. I mean, I do, sort of, and I must have missed a shot. It was right after we won the Cup and we were drinking a lot, and partying a lot, and days ran together and I must have missed one or something and I know it was irresponsible, but-”

“Jesus,” Jonny breaths, and Pat stops talking. “You’re pregnant?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a carrier?”

Pat swallows. He’s never told anyone else before, never said the words out loud, in all the years that he’s known. “Yeah, I am.”

“You-” Jonny runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Jonny glares at him, accusingly. “You never told me.”

“How could I?”

“I’m your best friend,” Jonny explodes and Pat winces.

“I know. But-” Pat sighs, and this is why things between them were never going to work. “You’re also my Captain.”

“So?”

“So? Jonny,” Pat glares at him, frustration coming through in his voice. “Do you think this was easy for me? Hiding this from you? That I liked having this secret? Do you know what they do to carriers in the NHL?” Jonny shakes his head, as if the force of Pat’s words is willing him to. “Of course you don’t, because no carrier ever makes it to professional sports. We hide and we lie and we pretend to be just one of the guys. All the time knowing that we hold this terrible secret, until someone finds out, and then-” Pat swallows, shaking his head and pulling his knees close to his chest.

“Pat-” Jonny’s voice is soft, somewhere between fear and awe and something else that Pat can’t place. “That wouldn’t have happened.”

“No?” Pat closes his eyes, letting his words wash over them both as his body shivers. “What about those stories about the high school football player who was taken behind the bleachers and beaten close to death? Or the Varsity swimmer whose teammates threw bricks at him and _did_ leave him to die. Or the NCAA hockey player in Minnesota last year who was raped in the locker room while his teammates and coaches watched. They did nothing, Jonny, nothing. When he reported it, not one of them stepped forward and the University accused him of making it up and expelled him.”

“Stop, Jesus, Pat, stop.” Jonny takes a step forward and Pat opens his eyes again.

“You really think nothing would happen if I walked into Stan’s office and told him what I am?”

“You could have told _me_.”

Pat shakes his head. “Honestly- honestly tell me that you wouldn’t have felt obligated to tell Coach Q or Stan or Rocky.” Jonny doesn’t answer and Pat sighs. “I didn’t think so.”

Jonny frowns and he motions in the vicinity of Pat’s stomach. “Yeah, and this is exactly the reason why I would have told them.”

Pat feels as if he’s been punched. He feels the impact, feels his whole body jerk and feels the bruise. He’s never felt smaller, more wrong, than he does in this moment, and, before he can stop himself, he breathes out, “Jonny,” because this is why Pat’s never told him. 

Jonny’s cheeks are red and he crosses his arms again, protectively, as if his excuses are justifications. “I’m sorry. That was harsh. But, Pat, how could you? You knew the consequences and you didn’t think it was important enough to take your shot before fucking some guy? Or using a fucking condom?”

“It was a mistake.”

“Obviously.”

Pat frowns, dropping his feet to the ground and standing up. “Fuck you. Is that what you’re mad about? The guy?”

Jonny throws his hands in the air. “I don’t know. I’m mad about a lot of things. Pick one.”

“Give me the list.”

“Who was he?”

“No one.”

“Perfect. Did you even know him?”

“He was no one. Not that it matters to you.”

“So, you let a goddamn stranger take you home and fuck you instead of-” Jonny stops, breathing deeply.

“No, please, finish.” Pat’s finally as angry as Jonny is and he’s sick of being the only one taking the high road here. “Instead of you?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No?”

“No.” Jonny glares. “And now you’re carrying his kid. Does he even know?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Fuck it’s not. This is why you’ve been playing so badly, isn’t it?”

“Because I’m pregnant? Yeah, maybe that’s part of it.” Pat spits back, dripping with sarcasm.

“Then don’t you think this is a lot my business?” Jonny grips his hair with his hand. “Fuck, Pat, how could you be so irresponsible? Don’t you know how important the year after a Cup win is?”

“Yes, Jonny, I did this to spite you, because I was so angry that you wouldn’t have me that I got careless and fucked someone else.” Pat wants to take the words back even as he says them, and he deflates, the anger leaving him tired and sore and hoping that Jonny doesn’t see how much truth there is in that admission.

Jonny shuffles his feet, his arms still crossed and his eyes still flashing daggers, but his voice dropping. “Why else?”

“A mistake. It was a mistake.”

Jonny sighs. “You have to take care of it.” Pat stares at him. “Just- just take care of it before it becomes an even bigger problem than it already is.”

Unconsciously, Pat’s hand goes to his stomach as Jonny lets him push past. He throws on the first pair of sweats that he sees and slips out the door. He wants to take a walk outside, but Ottawa is cold and he forgot his shoes, so instead he knocks on Duncs and Seabs’ door.

“It’s 8 in the morning.” Seabs whines, his hair tousled from sleep as he throws open the door.

“Um,” Pat swallows, running a subconscious hand through his own hair, knowing that he must look like a mess. “Can I come in? I just really need to brush my teeth and take a shower.”

Seabs frowns. “Your room came with a bathroom, didn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Pat’s voice is soft and Seabs sighs. “Okay, come in, but be quiet. Duncs is still sleeping. And don’t use my toothbrush.”

Pat takes his time in the shower, scrubbing his skin until it’s raw and red. By the time he comes out, Duncs is up and he and Seabs are lounging on one bed, watching Sports Center. Pat crawls into the other, pulling the quilt tight around his ears. “Wake me before practice, yeah?”

Now that Seabs is awake enough to be concerned, he gives Pat a look, but Pat ignores him and closes his eyes. Seabs sighs. “Yeah, sure.”

***

Pat was thirteen the first time. He was never sure if it was some sort of initiation thing, or if Tom just knew that Pat would take it, that Pat _wanted_ it. He was seventeen, the Captain of their high school team, and it’s cliché but when Tom pushed Pat’s head between his legs, Pat went willingly. It was sloppy and messy and unpracticed, and he couldn't get Tom off, so when Tom whispered “Can I fuck you?” Pat had just wanted it to be good for him and he had nodded a little too enthusiastically.

It was years before Pat really understand why his mom had cried so much as she packed the car and drove him across the border to a dingy clinic on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. The waiting room was full of young boys with American accents and, when Pat’s name was called, he hadn’t felt too old to hold his mother’s hand through the pain of the procedure.

Afterwards, she had tried to explain to him about bigotry and old-fashioned laws, and how Canada was more accepting of people like him. Not that he was different, but, well, he was, and the conversation had just left him confused and unsure and dirty somehow. And when they got home, he locked himself in the computer room and spent an evening reading up on carriers and carrier laws, and in the morning he promised himself that it wouldn’t matter, that having this gene wouldn't stop him from getting what he wanted.

And it hadn’t. He’s perhaps a little smaller than he’d like to be, but St. Louis is 5’8”, 176 lbs, and Pat wonders now if- well, if he’s a carrier making it good, too. Often, Pat thinks of them as kindred spirits, making up for their genes by playing hard and fucking girls in public. St. Louis has even gone so far as to get himself a wife, while Pat settles on ignoring the way he lusts after men until he’s alone, in bed. The whole thing makes him wonder how many more of them there are out there. Brian Gionta? Nathan Gerbe?

Not that it matters, because they’ve all played their parts, kept others guessing, while Pat’s gone and gotten himself knocked up. Which is the stupidest thing a carrier-pretending-not-to-be can possibly do. 

It’s just- well, in the few short years since the Carrier Rights bill was passed, Pat has gotten complacent. He’s forgotten what it was like to sneak into underground clubs and back alleys in Boys Town, shelling out thousands for birth control bills and hormone suppressants. Now that the shots are so readily available, Pat’s forgotten to be careful. And in the chaos post-Cup, he must have forgotten. A shot here, a suppressant mixed with alcohol there, and there must have been no barriers when he’d let Sharpie fuck him. Like an idiot. He deserves everything Jonny gives him. 

They get back from the road trip on a Tuesday, but then have a home game the next day, so Pat ignores the pointed looks Jonny gives him in the locker room before the Devils game. They lose, an embarrassing 5-3 during which Pat had been completely distracted, and he rushes out of the locker room afterwards before Jonny can corner him with a lecture and more ultimatums. 

Thursday, however, is an off-day, with only a short practice on Friday before Saturday’s short flight to Nashville. It’s as much time as they ever get during the season, and Pat can’t put it off any longer.

Last time he did this, his mom had been the one to make the arrangements. He never asked how she knew where to go, how she made a reservation without using his real name, how they crossed the border without letting on to what they were doing. He doesn’t deal with any of it this time. He just pulls on a black logo-less hoodie and baggie jeans and heads for the seediest part of town he knows.

Pat takes the El, so that no one will notice his car and a cab driver won’t recognize him and tell the press that he took _Pat Kane_ to an abortion clinic. Pat’s iPod is playing some douchie music that Seabs must have put on it – Jimi Hendrix or some other free love shit – and he almost misses his transfer to the Orange Line as he’s fumbling to change it to something else. He sits down to Tupac, hiding his face in the edge of his hoodie and hoping against hope that even reporters don’t venture into the bowels of the South Side of Chicago.

He gets up before his stop, and he has to fight back the feeling that everyone on the El knows exactly why he’s getting off at Western, which is just ridiculous, because it’s another ten blocks or so to the clinic. It’s no more than a broken down Colonial, no sign outside, chicken bones and cigarette butts in the gutter, and Pat pulls the paper from his pocket. It’s worn and creased, but he can just make out the address written on it, and frowns.

He turns the corner, and all doubts are gone. Even unmarked and with a fostered air of abandonment, there are picketers crowded on the sidewalk outside. Some are holding crosses, others poster boards with images of fetuses glue-sticked to them, others with signs declaring that carriers and their babies were created by “the Devil.”

“Stop the baby killers.”

“Unnatural.”

“The Apocalypse is upon us.” 

“God’s children. Not Carriers.”

Pat’s stomach is rolling as he pushes past the signs and takes the steps two at a time, banging open the front door and taking a moment to rest against it, breathing heavily. He closes his eyes, feeling his heartbeat in his neck and the sweat at the back of his knees.

“First time?”

He opens his eyes to see a young man looking up at him from a plastic red chair with the clearest blue eyes Pat has ever seen. Pat nods.

“Yeah, they take a little getting used to.” The kid nods his head back at the protesters, who Pat can just hear through the door.

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” The kid shrugs. “I remember my first time.”

Pat doesn’t want to think about that too deeply, about the fact that this kid, who looks so much younger than Pat, has been here enough times to get used to all this. He’s probably a street kid, turning tricks, struggling to eat. Every-so-often trips to the clinic are more cost effective then shots and pills.

Pat moves forward, stopping in front of the counter and not putting his hood down. “Um, hi?” He asks the middle-aged woman who’s smacking her gum and looking at her computer. She holds up a finger, and he shifts on his feet, the skin on his lower back beginning to crawl as he refuses to turn around and look at the other carriers in the waiting room.

Finally, she looks up. “Appointment?”

“I didn’t know I needed one.”

“You don’t.” She hands him a clipboard. “Fill this out. We’re a little backed up today, so take your time.”

Pat takes the clipboard, realizing for the first time that he’s shaking so badly that his fingers can barely hold it. He takes the closest open red plastic chair, between a blond girl who doesn’t look a day over fifteen and a thirty-something man, thin with skin frail and papery-looking. Pat doesn’t look at their faces as he turns his attention to the page in front of him.

Name. Age. Address. Health insurance. HIV status. Other STDs. Months along.

Jon Hawk. 24. 88 Chicago Ave, Chicago, IL 60688. No insurance. No HIV. Clean. 15 weeks.

Pat feels a sharp point in his side. “Choose a real zip code. It goes over better with the docs.”

He looks at the older guy to his left, then down at his page. He hadn’t thought about it, had just jotted down a name and a number and, Jesus, what had he been thinking? “Um, thanks.” He scratches out the zip code. “Know any?”

The guy shrugs. “60611. Always gives them a laugh.”

Pat’s stomach lurches. 60611. Old town. Pat’s actual zip code. Fuck.

“Thanks,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, his fingers shaking as he puts in the new zip code. It hits so close to home, and suddenly, Pat’s sure that someone will figure it out. Deadspin. The Doctors. The Tribune. _Hawk. 88._ Stupid. Could he have been any more obvious? And, his handwriting. Childish and curvy and he’s signed enough autographs that everyone will know who’s it is. He’s fucked.

Pat feels like he’s coming out of his skin.

He feels itchy.

His leg is bouncing.

The guy next to him is smiling, all teeth and lips and papery skin.

Pat closes his eyes. It smells like antiseptic and gauze, just like that first time, when his mother held his hand and looked disappointed and sad and resigned and mumbled things about his father and hockey and his sisters.

Erica, Jessica, Jackie.

He can’t do this.

He can’t do this.

He can’t.

The plastic chair groans as he stands up. He drops the clipboard in the trashcan on the way out the door, pushing his way through the picketers and pushing his hood back as he runs all the way back to the El. His skin is clammy, warm and sweaty under all his clothes, but he feels numb. When he closes his eyes, he doesn’t see any of it, not his mom’s disappointment, not Jonny’s judgment, not Sharpie’s mouth, wide and open and thrown back in ecstasy. 

Pat doesn’t know how he gets to Duncs’ and Seabs’ apartment. Doesn’t remember anything between running and getting on the El and the apartment door opening, Seabs on the other side, looking tired and confused and then, when he takes a look at Pat, worried. “Kaner?”

“Can I-?”

“Sure. Yeah. Yeah.” He holds the door open, glances down the sidewalk as Pat enters, as if someone might be chasing him, then closes the door and locks it. He’s dressed only in sweats, and he crosses his arms over his chest as he turns to look at Pat. “What happened?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Okay,” Seabs says slowly. “Why?”

“I trust you.” Pat frowns. “I think.” He sweeps his hands around the apartment. “I mean, you and Duncs, you remember what it was like, you know?”

Seabs shakes his head. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Before gay marriage. When you, you know, couldn’t be together and shit.”

Seabs parrots, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, Kaner, I remember what is was like when we ‘couldn’t be together and shit.’”

“Good. Good.” He’s starting to feel frantic, his skin itching beneath his sweats, from the clinic and the running and the stress.

“Seriously, what happened to you?” Seabs is peering at him, and Pat gets the crazy feeling that Seabs gets it. All of it.

He swallows, backtracking. “Nothing. I’m good. Nothing.”

“Ahh, okay. Just for the record, I don’t believe a word that you’re saying right now.”

Pat nods.

“But, the guest room’s open. You know where it is. Stay as long as you need.”

“Thanks.” Pat drops his hands away from his body and tries to smile, but from Seabs’ expression, it must come off brittle and fragile. 

“Just-” Seabs sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Promise you’ll talk to us. When you can. Just, promise, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He nods. “Promise.” He asserts, before disappearing down the hallway and into the guest room. 

***

Lying there in Seabs’ and Duncs’ guest bedroom, tracing the flowery lavender sheets and wishing to hell that he could drink half a bottle of vodka, Pat knows that things have to change. 

He pushes back the sheets, untangling his ankles and stumbling to stand in front of the mirror. His face is still red and swollen from crying on the couch earlier, and he still looks pale and freaked, rather from the experience or from the import of the decision he honestly didn’t know he was making when he got back on the El this afternoon.

Slowly, carefully, as if he does it too fast it’s somehow not going to work, he raises his shirt and places a hand on his stomach. It’s stupid. He might not be losing the weight the trainers would like him to, but he’s not so far along that he’s showing yet. Still, he turns, pushing his boxers low on his hips and puffing out his stomach and it looks stupid. He’s a carrier, not a chick, and isn’t that just the core of this whole fucking thing?

It hits him, suddenly, that he’d made a decision today. Not consciously. Not thought-out. He’s not a fucking political activist, but he’s not been unaffected by years of articles on how carriers are bad parents, how carriers should be sterilized, how carriers cannot do what other men can, can’t play sports, can’t be plumbers or carpenters, because they’re less than. Less than men. Less than women. Nothing, in-between, uncategorized and unacknowledged.

It hits him like a ton of bricks that he wants to do something about that. Not write it on a sign and picket abortion clinics or write an article or hold a press conference. But, do this. Have a baby. Be a father. Play hockey. All of it. Show them that it can be done. That a carrier can do everything. Play hockey, be a good father, have all of it. Just like everyone else.

Earlier, he hadn’t had time to come to a decision. It had been dirty, sad, too much, much too much, and he hadn’t been able to go through with it. On the El heading to Duncs’ and Seabs’, he had been overwhelmed with a sense of loss, the sense that if he went through with it, he’d regret it for the rest of the life.

When Pat closes his eyes, he sees a little boy, laughing and smiling and Pat can’t, he just can’t, not give that little boy a chance. And if that boy has Sharpie’s nose and Sharpie’s eyes, Pat’s gonna deal with that later. Much later.

Now that he has the chance to think about it, rationalize it, come to the same decision from so many different angles, Pat realizes that there’s no going back. There’s hasn’t really been since early this afternoon, from the moment he took a step out of the clinic and didn’t turn back. This baby is his. All his.

Decision made, Pat drops his shirt down, smoothing it over his stomach, and, not bothering to look at the clock, he moves down the hall and opens the door to Duncs’ and Seabs’ room. One of them is snoring – probably Seabs, but Pat doesn’t have any proof – and Pat turns the light on low so as not to startle them too much.

“Wha-? Where is it? I’ll-” Seabs is sitting up, arms thrashing around, and Duncs, slower to open his eyes but much more coherent, shakes Seabs awake. Seabs shakes himself and looks around, frowning. “What time is it?”

Duncs glances at the clock on his side of the bed. “3:30.”

“Fuck.” Seabs bends his knees, burying his head in his hands and rubbing at his eyes.

“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t know what time it is.” They both glare at him and Pat shrugs guiltily. “You said anytime, right?”

Seabs drops his head back to his hands, but Duncs stares at him for a long moment. “Yeah, Kaner. Of course. What’s up?”

“I’m pregnant.”

***

“It go okay?”

Pat looks up to see Jonny standing over him, hair still wet from his shower, and eyes dark and serious. “Did what go okay?” He asks, pulling off his shin pads and throwing them into his open bag.

“The- You know-” Jonny motions at Pat’s stomach. Pat stares at him because here? Jonny’s asking him here? In the locker room, surrounded by their teammates? Jonny takes his silence as confusion and leans forward, whispering directly into Pat’s ear. Despite himself, Pat shivers, before he focuses on what Jonny’s saying. “The abortion.”

Coming from Jonny, it sounds so simple. A fact. Not a choice. Or an option. Or a decision. 

“Yeah, Jonny, it went fine. I’m good. I can play.”

“That wasn’t-” Jonny looks frustrated, as if having to have this conversation is more then he’s comfortable with, and Pat can help him with that, because he really doesn’t want to be having it either.

“It’s okay,” Pat promises. “I’m good. It’s gonna be an awesome season.”

Jonny grins, firmly back on solid ground. “We’re gonna be great.” He holds out his fist and Pat bumps it.

***

**Bleacher Report**

**Chicago Blackhawks: Patrick Kane Still Searching for His ‘A’ Game**

**By Mikal Elyse (correspondent)**

**October 28, 2010**

325 reads, 37 comments  
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As critics continue to hold the Blackhawks' dilemma accountable to the Cup hangover and the departure of key members, there are in fact quite obvious answers to their struggles. Multiple reasons cause a team’s struggles.

Personally, I have established multiple times on the issue of missing Brian Campbell and overworking Duncan Keith, so I will not be stressing that factor here. Rather, I am going to be emphasizing on the disappointment of Patrick Kane so far this season.  


Kane has had rather impressive numbers since starting in the NHL. He racked up at least 70 points in three seasons on the Blackhawks, and even having a plus/minus rating of plus-16 in the 2009-2010 regular season. And who can forget the Stanley Cup overtime winning goal he shot last June?

So where has Kane been?

Various fans tease that he is still drunk since the parade, while others suppose he is just in a temporary slump.

We all know he can improve his game from what he has produced so far (minus-six rating and only two goals).

After his dreadful performances on the ice as of late, coach Joel Quenneville has moved Kane down to the third line. 

Kane is naturally a point per game player, with him missing his poise; it seems the Blackhawks are missing perfect opportunities to win.  
His confidence level seemingly is going down the drain after each game. It has been noted he realizes his deplorable performance is affecting not only himself but the entire team.

If Kane can become the player he was last season, with the right degree of attitude, confidence and enthusiasm… the Blackhawks hangover rumors can, with no trouble, be thrown out the window.

_Mikal Elyse is a Featured Columnist for bleacherreport.com and co-owner of **chicagosportsauthority.com**._

***

The thing about being pregnant is that not all that much changes. 

He has to eat better, but he’s a hockey player, so he already eats pretty well. 

He tires more quickly, so he adds half-an-hour to his afternoon nap. 

Once the morning sickness (or whatever they’re calling it these days) wears off, the most noticeable difference is the way that Duncs and Seabs treat him. They’re protective of him. When he goes out, they always make sure that one of them is with him, fending off beers and making his excuses to young blond things offering him shots. In the gym, they keep the trainers at bay, promising, over and over again, that Pat’s following his diet, that Pat’s sleeping right, that he’s running his ten miles a day and bench pressing more than he ever has before.

It’s nice. It’s sort of like they’re doing this. Together. All three of them. And if Pat can’t have a partner and all that death-do-us-part stuff, this is almost enough. Best friends who care. A lot. Too much, even. 

“Kaner,” Seabs says as he passes the couch, cuffing Pat on the head. “We need to talk.”

“Ow,” Pat complains, pausing his game and rubbing his hand over the back of his head. “Stop beating the pregnant guy.”

“Not until you stop playing,” Seabs shoots back. It’s a joke. Sort of. Except that Seabs has been saying things like that more and more lately, little hints, here and there, about the dangers of hockey and the unpredictability of male pregnancies.

Pat puts the controller down and turns in his seat. “I was thinking it’s about time for me to go back to my own apartment.”

Seabs raises an eyebrow, taking the armchair and picking up the discarded controller. He starts the game, eyes focused on ruining all of Pat’s Halo street-cred.

Pat watches him for a moment, before continuing. “It’s been really nice of you guys to let me stay here, but I’m just in the way and, there are things, at home, you know?”

On the screen, Pat’s character dies, and he frowns as Seabs drops the controller into his lap and turns to him. “We need to talk about the doctor.”

“I see plenty of doctors.”

“Not about this.”

“The trainers are watching me. I’m okay.”

“Maybe,” Seabs shrugs. “But we don’t really know that, do we?”

“Well-” Pat glances down, away from Seabs’ intense gaze. “I’d know. If something was wrong.”

“That’s a misnomer. I looked it up on the Internet.”

“Does Duncs have you on a word-a-day calendar again?”

Seabs grins. “Yep. Does it make me more intimidating?”

Pat leans over to grab the controller from Seabs’ lap, then settles into the couch again, restarting the game. “I’m not going to the doctor.”

“You are.” Seabs gets up, resting a heavy hand on Pat’s shoulder. “It’s a condition of you moving in.”

***

Moving into Duncs and Seabs’ apartment for real is less of a hassle then Pat would have thought. He throws clothes and workout gear into a few bags, but everything else he leaves, under the assumption that, someday, he’ll be back here. Mostly likely with the baby. He ignores the way his stomach aches when he takes a last look around, before closing the door and dragging the last bag down to the car. 

He lets himself fall into a routine. Duncan goes to the UC on a strict schedule every morning, and Pat finds that he likes the rhythm of a strict routine. Cardio. Weight room. Massages from the trainers. Practice, on non-game days. Home for a nap and a plate of pasta on game days. It works for him. It’s good.

“Hey,” Jonny nods at him as Pat takes the treadmill next to his.

Pat nods back, putting his towel over the timer and starting himself at a slow warm-up. “Hey. You’re here early.”

Jonny raises an eyebrow. “So are you.”

Pat shrugs. “Not really. I’m here most days about now.” Jonny frowns and Pat rolls his eyes. “I’m not actually a lazy drunk and you need to stop stalking me on Deadspin.”

“I know that,” Jonny tells him defensively.

Pat increases the speed on his treadmill. “I come in with Duncs every morning.”

“Huh.”

“Not sleeping with him.”

“I wasn’t implying-” Jonny frowns. “Eww.”

“Also, Seabs.”

“Right.”

Pat runs his first mile in silence, before he feels Jonny take a deep breath next to him.

“We never really, um, talked. After- everything.”

Pat closes his eyes. It throws him off balance and his foot catches the edge of the belt. He catches himself, adrenaline pulsing in his ears as his hand automatically goes to his stomach. Jonny follows the motion and bites his lip.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to- upset you.”

“I’m not.” Pat tears his hand away, forcing himself to start his treadmill again, willing the rhythmic running to calm his nerves. “Just- surprised. I didn’t think you ever wanted to talk about it again.” _Not after that stilted, awkward, terrible conversation in the locker room_. Pat doesn’t add that.

“I don’t,” Jonny says, quickly, tripping over the words. “I just- you’re okay, right?”

Patrick eyes him, mentally weighing his options. Jonny looks nervous, like he’s afraid that Patrick might actually not be okay, like Patrick might want to talk about his _feelings,_ like Jonny knows the guilty part he’s played in all of this but isn’t ready, not yet, maybe not ever, to own up to it. 

That’s all Patrick needs to know.

He nods in agreement. “Right.”

Jonny grins, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he reaches over to slug Patrick’s shoulders. “Good. Now we can go back to screaming at each other. I’ve missed it.”

Patrick laughs. “Me too, Tazer.” _Me too_. 

***

“We need to talk about this.”

“We really don’t.”

“Kaner-” Duncs sighs, gathering their empty plates and depositing them in the sink. He doesn’t look up as he rinses them and loads them into the dishwasher. “You need to see someone. You’re- what? Four months along?”

“Five,” Patrick supplies, petulantly.

“Five, then. Bring the salad bowls.” He watches Pat stack their bowls and waits to keep talking until Pat is there, next to him. “We’re about to go on a sixteen-day road trip. What if something happens while we’re on the road?”

“Nothing’s going to happen.” Duncan’s glare beats through the back of his shirt. “Nothing’s happened yet,” Pat amends.

“Dumb luck.”

“Skill.”

Duncs rolls his eyes. “There’s no skill with babies.”

“There is so too skill with babies. And I have it.”

“Patrick, please. I’m not joking around here. Make a doctor’s appointment.” Something in Duncan’s voice makes Pat look away, even as Duncan turns to lean against the sink so that their shoulders are pressed together. “What’s the harm?”

And, fuck that. “The harm? Everything.” Pat pulls away, stomping halfway out of the kitchen before he turns back, the fear and anxiety bubbling to the surface as he stalks back. “You don’t know. You don’t know what it would be like, if some doctor or nurse or intern spoke to the wrong person and it ended up on Twitter or _Out_ Magazine or, god forbid, fucking Deadspin. Do you know what they would do to me?”

“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“How?” Pat asks, nearing hysteria. “Can you promise me, no take backs, that it won’t happen that way?”

Duncs’ eyes soften. “You know I can’t.”

He feels his anger leave as quickly as it came. Fuck hormones, leaving him feeling empty and raw. “Then I can’t do it. I can’t handle it.”

“If it happens, we’ll all handle it. Together. Seabs and I and Jonny and Sharpie and everyone. You get that, right?”

Patrick shrugs. “I can’t count on that.” _Not- not on Sharpie. If he ever finds out-_. Pat’s chest aches. “I should pack.”

Duncan sighs. “We’re leaving at 8 in the morning.” He lets Pat go, before turning back to the dishes.

***

Sixteen days. Sixteen days away from the UC, from their fans, from Chicago. Sixteen days for Patrick to slowly go out of his mind.

It’s stupid. He hasn’t been on the road for more than an overnight since he decided to keep the baby, and he knows that it shouldn’t really matter, but-. Rationally, Pat knows that location has nothing to do with a successful pregnancy, but he can’t really convince himself of that. This is a Chicago baby. It was conceived in Chicago, it’s going to be raised in Chicago, and if the city is only Patrick’s adopted hometown, this baby is going to be born and bred. It feels wrong to leave.

As the plane takes off, Pat presses his forehead against the window, watching as the city lights disappear below them. Next to him, Jonny’s immersed in his DS, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil going on in Pat’s mind. Pat hesitates for a moment. Before, he wouldn’t have thought twice, but now- 

Now, they’ve been through confessions and arguments and guilt and the realization that, whatever they might have been, it’s over now, their time has passed. They missed it. By light years or by inches, Pat will never know, but, in the end, it doesn’t really matter. They’re still here, him and Jonny - Kaner and Tazer - and that matters. Maybe not in the way he always thought it would, but it does. It matters. They matter.

Pat wedges his pillow in between the seat and Jonny’s shoulder and lets himself fall into Jonny’s side. Jonny’s body freezes, just for an instant, then he presses a quick kiss to Pat’s forehead and goes back to playing his DS.

All in all, a fairly normal beginning to the road trip.

***

They start the road trip at .500, trading a 7-2 blowout at the hands of Calgary with a 7-1 blowout of Vancouver that more than makes up for it. The 5-2 loss to San Jose stings though, not least of which because Antti Niemi plays like a brick wall and Pat doesn’t know how mad he’s allowed to be about it.

He doesn’t turn down a chance to go out, though. Even if Nemo’s a quiet, weird, goalie kind of guy, Pat’s missed him. And the minute Nemo pulls him into a hug, Pat melts into it, forgiving him instantly for beating them, perhaps even for leaving them in the first place. It’s been five months, but Pat’s just beginning to scab over the wound of losing half of his team in a two-week period last July.

“Nemo,” he grins. “I’ve missed you, buddy. How’s San Jose treating you?”

Nemo grins back, pulling out of the hug and clenching Pat’s shoulder in a grip that is way too perceptive. “Good. Quiet. The team is much saner.”

Patrick scoffs. “Boring.”

Nemo shrugs. “It’s good. Nice change.” He squeezes Pat’s shoulder and drops his voice. “How are you?”

“Good, good.” Patrick says quickly, hoping to pass it through Nemo’s crazy goalie lie-detector. “Cup hangover, you know? But, it’s getting better. Getting my legs back under me.”

“Good.” Nemo squeezes and lets him go, sending him back to his team. 

Patrick squeezes in next to Seabs and Duncs at the Hawks’ table. “Nemo’s still weird,” he reports.

“You can take the guy out of Finland, but you can’t take Finland out of the guy,” Duncan says, wisely, and Patrick snorts, reaching for the beer in front of him. He stops himself, dropping the glass to the table and tracing his thumb around the rim. 

“I miss beer,” he breathes out, frustrated, slumping back in his seat. Sharpie’s dancing this crazy Macarena-type thing that shouldn’t be hot but totally is, and Patrick’s watching it out of the corner of his eye. He really needs a drink. “And vodka-cranberries, with those little cherries in them.”

“You’re such a girl,” Seabs chirps, but then he freezes, eyes going wide and guilty as he backtracks franticly. “I mean, not- a girl, of course- you’re not- Men drink fruity drinks. I’ll prove it.” He waives the waitress over and orders a vodka-cranberry before he can stop himself. 

“Fuck you,” Kaner tells him, grinning and stealing the cherry from the top of the drink when the waitress brings it. He pauses when it’s halfway to his mouth. “This is okay, right? I mean, there are only a few drops of liquor on it and-”

“It’s fine,” Duncs assures him and Pat grins, popping the cherry into his mouth.

“Peeks,” Sharpie drops into the seat on the other side of Pat’s. He’s lost his jacket somewhere and he’s wearing a black Hawks shirt and designer jeans, his arm sweaty and warm where it’s pressing against Pat’s. “Another beer?” He waves for their waitress and, before Pat can protest, there’s a fresh beer in front of him.

Pat fingers his glass while Sharpie finishes half of his in one go. Pat looks around for inspiration, and before he can stop himself, he asks, “Dance floor?,” because anything has to be better than sitting here and not drinking his beer.

Sharpie pauses, and Pat sees the memories of their last time dancing together flashing across Sharpie’s face, but then he gets this glint in his eye and he nods, finishing his beer. “I have a few more songs in me.”

Pat’s in so far over his head that he lost track of the surface months ago. But, Sharpie’s pulling him to the dance floor, bending his knees and pulling Patrick forward. While the rest of them are still fighting Cup hangover weight, Sharpie has the same stamina he’s always had, and it’s infectious. It’s impossible, watching Sharpie dance stupidly, his left hand in the air as he bobs his head to a Kanye tune, not to lean forward, to press against Sharpie’s stupidly toned thigh and wrap his hand around Sharpie’s lower back.

It’s comfortable. It’s hot and familiar and everything Patrick’s been jerking off to since August.

It is also very different this time. Without the comfort of alcohol and a Cup win behind him, Patrick can’t ignore the pull he feels towards Sharpie’s body, towards getting closer, as close as he can, with clothes and sweat and the baby between them. Sharpie presses forward, his lips pressed open and wet against Pat’s neck. It’s an invitation, a question, a request. 

This time, it’s just them, on the dance floor of some posh San Jose club, burying themselves in the loss and the warmth of bodies and Patrick just wants to forget. Weeks of worrying, hiding from the people closest to him, pretending that everything’s normal, and he wants a break, a night, a dance, a kiss, whatever, just- Just a moment to lose himself and all the shit that’s been hanging around him.

He slips his hand under Sharpie’s shirt, pressing against his back and arching as Sharpie leans forward. Sharpie’s hard already, his erection thrusting against Pat’s thigh, and Pat kisses that spot behind Sharpie’s ear that makes Sharpie shutter and whimper. 

“Yes, please,” Patrick murmurs into Sharpie’s ear, feeling far from sober. It’s an answer, and a request of his own. Sharpie doesn’t hesitate.

***

The last two times they’ve done this, Pat’s slept wonderfully, worn out and sated and ignorant of how awkward and weird he should feel. Tonight, however, he lies on his back, awake, feeling Sharpie’s shoulder blades against his side as Sharpie breathes shallowly, clearly as satisfied and oblivious as Pat, himself, should be. Except, Pat can’t shake the realization that this doesn’t feel awkward or weird at all. It feels comfortable and warm and like something he could get used to too easily. 

Pat tries to dismiss it. Because he can’t. He can’t get used to this and Sharpie can’t get used to it. There’s a baby now, Sharpie’s baby, and Sharpie can’t ever know. The thought hurts more than it ever has before, and, for the first time, Pat allows himself to acknowledge that a large part of the reason he couldn’t get rid of this baby is because it’s Sharpie’s. Sharpie’s and his. 

Pat can’t be doing this. 

He is definitely having feelings here, and he can’t. 

It’s not fair. To Sharpie. To the baby. To himself.

He slips out from under the covers. Sharpie rolls into the spot he’s left, and Pat ignores the way his chest tightens as he pulls on his boxers and a t-shirt. He’s zipping his pants when Sharpie murmurs, warm and confused, “Paddy?”

“Hey.” Pat sits on the edge of the bed and keeps ignoring his feelings as Sharpie moves closer to Pat’s body heat. “I’m going back to my room.”

“It’s late,” Sharpie whines, not opening his eyes.

Pat glances over his shoulder to look at the clock. “Early, actually.”

Sharpie _mmmhmm_ s and pats the empty space by him.

“I can’t. I- I have to go.” Jesus, he’s an asshole. 

“Come back to bed.”

Such an asshole. “I-”

“It’s warm,” Sharpie promises.

“I-” God, Patrick is the worst human being. “I can’t do this again.”

Sharpie’s eyes slant open and he snorts. “Come on, I wasn’t that bad.”

“Not bad.” Pat bites his lips because no matter how much he needs to extricate himself from this, he can’t have Sharpie wandering around thinking that Pat wasn’t satisfied or something. It would give any guy a complex, and that’s not something Pat ever wants to see on Sharpie of all people. “At all,” he emphasized. “I just- I can’t. Anymore.”

Sharpie pulls away, and Pat’s thigh burns from the chill as Sharpie struggles to sit up against the headboard. “You wanted this,” he says, sounding strangely unsure, and Pat really can’t stand the sound of it.

“I did. I do. I mean- I just, have stuff to work through?” He doesn’t want to lie. He doesn’t know what else to do. He lies. “With Jonny. Or, whatever.”

Sharpie’s face twists and for just a moment, Pat thinks he sees something there. Regret or jealousy or-. Something. It passes though, or it was never there at all, and then Sharpie’s sitting up and grasping his shoulder, like they’re bros or something, and, sure enough, he smiles and, “Hey, we’re cool. Whatever you need.”

“Thanks.” Pat swallows. “Yeah, thanks, man.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sharpie’s up and off the bed, passing into the bathroom with nothing on and Pat’s dick gives a little twinge of protest. He can’t though. He can’t, for so many reasons. So, he ignores his dick, he ignores the way his chest burns and his heart pounds in his ears, and he doesn’t look back.

***

Patrick’s ready for this road trip to be over. He knows that the Circus Trip is important for team cohesion, and, with Barnum and Bailey’s at the United Center, it’s not like they have much of a choice but to get out of town for a couple of weeks. But, after his last night with Sharpie, all he’s wanted to do is curl up with a tub of chunky monkey ice cream (fuck cravings and fuck his trainers) and watch _Twilight_ a few times over. 

The thing is, Sharpie isn’t even avoiding him. He’s wandering around like nothing happened. Pranking the rookies and Jonny, laughing the loudest at dinner, scoring goals like he was born to. It’s Pat who’s having the problem, who couldn’t get into water-pranking Seabs in Anaheim and who can’t seem to score a single goal or complete a half-decent pass. He can tell that Jonny’s a day or two away from a real barn blazer of a lecture, and Patrick can’t take it. He’s the one who called things off in the first place. With Sharpie and Jonny both, and fuck them for handling this better then he is.

“Stop moping.” Seabs says as he takes Jonny’s vacated seat next to Pat in the locker room.

“I’m not.”

Seabs laughs. “You so are.” He pats Patrick’s knee. “You’ll score. Next game.”

“Whatever.” Patrick looks away. “We won. That’s all that matters.”

“Right.” Seabs digs into Pat’s travel bag and pulls out the obscenely expensive black t-shirt that Pat had bought at Diesel last week, because it does a really good job at hiding his stomach. “Put this on. We’re going out.”

“I’m really not-”

Seabs taps Pat’s knee again as he gets up. “Not up for debate.”

Pat grumbles but, now that he’s living with Seabs and Duncs, arguing earns him extra days doing the dishes, and it’s just not worth it. He waits ‘til the showers are completely empty, then washes up quickly and puts on the shirt. It’s flattering, and he’s feeling a little better about the not-eating-ice-cream thing by the time they get to the bar. 

It’s not one of those fancy clubs that away teams always insist on going to. It’s just a simple, neighborhood bar off of Manhattan Beach, where most of the Kings players seem to live, and Patrick enjoys the anonymity and the normality of it. He’s handed a beer and he sits back, cradling the drink to his chest as he listens to his teammates joke with the Kings players around him.

“Ugh,” Drew Doughty groans across the table. “The Cup’s never gonna be the same after you assholes had it all summer. Knew we should have won it first.”

Sharpie snorts. “Like that was ever gonna happen.”

Doughty narrows his eyes. “Got a gold medal, don’t I?”

Seabs leans over to drape an arm over Sharpie’s chair. “I’ve got both of you beat.”

Dustin Brown rolls his eyes. “You’re all assholes.” He pushes back his chair and stands. “More beers?” Everyone nods, except for Pat, and Brown looks right at him. “Kaner?”

And it’s stupid – Pat should just say yes and pour his current one into a palm tree or something – but Brown was his assistant captain in Vancouver and will probably be his captain in Sochi, and Pat’s been trained his whole life to do what his captain says. Not that that’s ever mattered much with Jonny, but Brownie- well, he just has this way of making guys feel safe and cared for and Pat doesn’t want to lie to him. So he shakes his head. “I’m good.”

“Sure?”

Patrick holds up his glass. “Still got one to finish.”

“Drink up.” He orders, and it earns a laugh. If Brown doesn’t quite laugh with their teammates, Pat shrugs it off. Brownie’s a shy guy, with Crosby-level social anxieties, and Pat’s not going to worry about it.

Besides, he’s having fun, for the first time since he left Sharpie in their hotel shower. It’s just unfortunate that he’s feeling a little woozy, the smell of peanuts and patrons and the feel of beer sticking to the floor under his shoes are combining in unpleasant ways. It’s been a while since he’s had a bout of morning sickness, and he figures he’s due.

He makes it through another round, but he can’t fight it off any longer. Clutching a hand tightly to his stomach, he pushes his way to the bathroom, ignoring the grime and dirt on the bathroom floor as he empties his stomach. His stomach immediately feels better, but his head is heavy and swimming, so he cleans up and pushes out the back door onto the Manhattan Beach side street. It’s well-lit, but quiet and cool, and Patrick leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and taking deep, calming breaths.

“Feel better?”

Patrick jerks up, just barely keeping his head from slamming back against the brick. “Brownie.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You followed me,” Pat accuses.

Brown shrugs. “You weren’t looking too hot. Thought I’d come check on you.”

“I’m fine.” Pat’s head is still dizzy and his eyes are struggling to focus, but he braces himself against the wall and turns his best glare on Brown.

Brown shrugs again, resting his shoulder against the wall a few feet from Pat, leaving a comfortable distance between them. His voice is low and soothing, just the hint of his lisp showing through, as his words wash slowly over Patrick. “Nicole – my wife – the morning sickness never really stopped with our first two.”

Pat freezes because, “What?”

“She’s pregnant again. Our third. Another boy.” Brown turns his eyes down with a happy, guilty grin. “It’s better, this time, but with the first two she was always sick.”

“I’m not-”

Brown looks up again, raising an eyebrow. “Not what?”

Pat doesn’t know what to say - _Pregnant. Like that. I’m not like that_ – because Brown can’t know. He can’t. Pat’s been pregnant for five months and his teammates don’t have a clue, but he’s been around Brown for two hours and- “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grinds out, sounding a bit angrier than he’d meant to.

Brown holds up a hand. “Sorry- I just-” He sighs. “Look, I didn’t mean to corner you. Just- that thing you do-” he motions towards Pat’s stomach, where Pat realizes he’s resting his left hand. “Nicole always does that. And you haven’t touched your beer all night. I know the signs,” Brown finishes, almost apologetically.

Pat drops his hand quickly, letting it hang awkwardly at his side as his head reels. He’s still feeling dizzy, and Brown’s voice is so soothing, Pat almost wants to thank him for noticing, for paying more attention then any of Pat’s own teammates have.

“I know it’s not talked about.” Brown deliberately leans back against the wall, loosening his stance to appear as unthreatening as a hockey player can. “I know what it’s like, playing hockey and being- And it’s none of my business, tell me to go if you want, but- I want to help.”

“Why?” It’s an admission more than a question, and it’s out before he can stop himself.

“My brother, Brandon, he’s a carrier. When we were kids, he was the best player I knew. I looked up to him so much. But when he hit puberty and we found out-” Brown shrugs a little sadly. “He gave it up. The hockey part. Got two kids now and a partner and I guess it’s what he wanted. But I always wonder, if things had been different, if he hadn’t had to choose, I don’t know what kind of life he could have had, you know?”

“Yeah,” Pat breaths, his throat feeling tight and hot as he listens to it, his story laid out raw and bare in front of him, what it would have been like if he had chosen differently, what things still might be like because of what he’s chosen now. It’s so much, so much, so much more than Pat could ever have imagined to hear it, like this, and he leans forward, towards Brown, whispering, “I know.”

Brown meets him half-way, with a hand on his shoulder as he pulls Pat into a one-armed hug. “Does anyone know?”

“Duncs and Seabs. I’m staying with them.”

“The father?”

“He doesn’t know. He’s not going to.” It hurts so much more than it’s hurt the hundred times he’s told Duncs and Seabs the very same thing. Because this time, it’s true, and it’s going to stay true, and Pat finally feels the ache of the other morning settle deep into his bones because, fuck, he fell for Sharpie and it’s over and, now, Sharpie will never know. And it hurts. For Pat. For the baby, who will never get to know Sharpie, and it’s unbearably, hopelessly sad.

“I’m sorry,” Brown whispers against Pat’s shoulder. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t push, doesn’t chastise; he just understands, without Pat having to say another word, and Pat is unbelievably grateful for him.

“Hey, Kaner?” Pat pulls away to see Seabs standing in the doorway, looking around for him and narrowing his eyes when he sees them. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I needed some air.”

Seabs eyes Brown warily. “Duncs and I are heading back to the hotel. It’s getting late.”

It’s not really a question, and Pat’s head is still feeling fuzzy from the sickness and the conversation. He nods. “Yeah, I just- I’ll meet you out front, yeah?” 

Seabs looks back and forth between them, but finally nods and goes back inside, banging the door on the way. Pat flinches. “Sorry, he’s just-” He frowns. “Protective.”

Brown laughs. “That’s what teammates are for.” He pauses, then pulls Pat’s phone from the front pocket of his t-shirt. “Call me whenever you need anything. Don’t forget that we’re teammates, too, yeah?”

Pat grins, taking his phone back. “Not likely to forget a silver medal anytime soon.”

Brown laughs again. “Didn’t think so.” He makes to go back inside, but pauses, placing his hand on Pat’s shoulder. “What you’re doing? It’s a good, brave thing. And if someone had to be the first, I’m glad it’s you.”

***

December opens cold and sunny, those types of beautiful, still, frozen days that frequent the Mid-West. They have a four game home stand after the Circus Trip, spanning all the way from November 28th to December 8th. Ten whole days, and Pat almost doesn’t know what to do with himself. Except, well, everyone else seems to have plenty of ideas of what he _should_ be doing.

The Hawks have a standing tradition to celebrate Thanksgiving on, or as near as possible, to December 1st every year. It’s become a thing, and, usually, Pat is looking forward to it. He is this year, too, except that it’s at Seabs and Duncs’ apartment, and they’ve been putting him to work.

To get out of bathroom cleaning duty, Pat’s volunteered to do a grocery run, which is fine. Seabs’ list spans two sheets of legal paper, though, and Pat’s already been to Whole Foods, Dominicks, Whole Foods again, and is now at Trader Joes when he’s stopped by a young boy, twisting on his feet and holding a Blackhawks baseball cap in his hand as he gets Pat’s attention.

“Are you Patrick Kane?”

“Ahh,” Pat pauses, then bends down to be on eye level with him. “Yeah, I am. What’s your name?”

“Sam.” He holds out his hand and Pat takes it, small and sweaty in his palm.

“Want me to sign that?”

Sam nods quickly, holding out the cap and, when Pat takes it, putting his fingers into his mouth.

“Don’t bite your nails,” he says, without thinking, feeling as surprised as Sam does when he drops his hands to his sides.

“Sorry.”

Pat shrugs. “It’s a bad habit. I still haven’t broken it.” He holds out his own hand, and Sam inspects the broken nails carefully, before nodding very seriously. Pat takes his hand back and signs the cap with the sharpie he always has in his pocket. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” Sam grins, rushing forward and hugging Pat quickly before rushing away. It’s sweet, comfortable, comforting, all the things that have been percolating in the back of his mind since he talked with Dustin Brown a few days ago. 

He leaves his cart in the aisle, grabbing what he can and paying before heading home as quickly as possible. He dumps his arms-full of groceries on the kitchen island, ignoring Duncs’ questions and frustrated mutterings as he bypasses a conversation for his bedroom. 

Brown’s number has been sitting in Patrick’s phone, untouched, since he got back from LA, and he makes the call now. He’s nervous, he hadn’t exactly been feeling well that night, and there’s the slightest possibility that the whole conversation had been a figment of his dizzy mind. 

He needn’t have worried, though. Brown is just as supportive as he’d been that night, immediately handing over his brother’s doctor’s number. The doctor’s in Ithaca, NY, but he’s discreet, and has experience with these sorts of things – Pat doesn’t ask exactly what that means – and Pat dials the number the minute he hangs up with Brown.

“This is Dr. Castleman’s office. How may I help you?”

“Uh, hi. I-” Pat coughs. “I was given this number by Dustin Brown.” He emphasizes the name. “He said he’d put a good word for me with Dr. Castleman.”

“Let me put you on hold.”

 _I would walk 500 Miles_ , Muzak version, starts playing in his ear and Pat puts it on speakerphone, his knee bobbing nervously, his stomach feeling woozy, and loosing feeling in his hands as he waits. Impatiently. Idly, he starts to unpack the rest of his suitcase, throwing most of it in the laundry bin and dumping the unworn workout gear into an empty drawer. 

Finally, the music stops, and he hears, crackling through speakerphone, “This is Dr. Castleman.”

Pat trips in his rush to grab it and pull it up to his ear. “Dr. Castelman, this is Patrick Kane. From the Chicago Blackhawks.”

“Yes, I know who you are.”

“Really?” Pat asks, surprised, before shaking his head. “Sorry, never mind. I got your name from Dustin Brown. You work with his brother, Brandon. He said that you were, umm, discreet?” 

“Yes, of course. Complete Doctor-Patient privilege.”

“And you’ve worked with patients like this before?”

“If by ‘patients like this’ you mean carrier professional athletes, then yes. Many times.”

He’s blunt, to-the-point, and it puts Pat at ease. Enough that he allows himself to be surprised by the meaning behind that statement. “Really? There are more of us?”

“There are many, Mr. Kane.” The doctor’s sounding a little impatient.

“Can you-” Pat breathes deeply. “Can you tell me who they are? Just one?”

“Complete Doctor-Patient privilege,” Dr. Castelman repeats.

“Right. Sorry. That’s important.” Pat starts to play with his bedspread. He wishes he didn’t have to do this. He wishes Sharpie was here, with him, acting as his partner and making calls like this for him. “Anyway, I know you’re in Ithaca, and I’m- well, I’m in Chicago and I’d really like a doctor here. Or, at least in the Mid-West. Somewhere I can drive to. Preferably. If that’s possible,” he finishes, finally cutting off his own babbling with a deep breath.

“You have a pen?”

The doctor’s in Chicago. Well, Forest Hills, but close enough. Pat’s still sitting on the bed, staring at the phone number on the pad of paper in his hands, when Duncan knocks on his door a while later. Pat makes an agreeable noise, and Duncs puts his head around the door.

“You okay?”

Pat shakes his head to clear it. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Duncan frowns. “’Cause there’s a bunch of groceries on the counter that I need help with. And you forgot the cranberry sauce and the spices for the stuffing.”

“Yeah, there was this kid who wanted an autograph. His name was Sam.” Duncs tilts his head, clearly confused, and Pat waves him off. “I’ll go out and get them.”

“Don’t worry about it. I sent Seabs.”

“Oh.”

“I could use some help in the kitchen, though.”

“Yeah, I can do that.” Pat gets up, feeling a little lightheaded, and he uses a hand on the mattress to steady himself. “I made a doctor’s appointment. For tomorrow. If you can give me a ride?”

Duncan stops halfway out the door, turning slowly and staring at Pat, before nodding, once, happily. “Yeah, of course.”

“Smug asshole.” Pat follows Duncs out into the kitchen, accepting a knife and an onion and starting to chop, falling into a soothing rhythm before he ventures, “Did you know there were more like me?”

“Like you how?” Duncs asks, distracted, as he pulls things from the cupboards.

“Carriers. In major league sports.”

Duncs shrugs. “Brown must have known someone, to get you that number.”

“I guess.” He hadn’t told Duncs and Seabs about Brown’s brother. It had seemed, not like a secret, exactly, but like something private, that Brown had chosen to share with him, and only him. Pat’s quiet for a moment, before continuing. “I always assumed, if there were more of us, that we’d have an underground club or something.”

“An underground-?”Duncs laughs. “You have to stop watching those _CSI_ reruns.”

Pat frowns. “Wouldn’t we at least talk?”

Duncs puts down the flour, gripping his hands on the edge of the island and devoting his full attention to Pat. “No one knows about you, right?” Pat nods. “So how would you know about anyone else?”

“I-” Pat leans his hips against the counter, his head light and hazy as he feels things fall apart and then come into focus in a new way. “My worldview is blown.”

Duncan laughs. 

“I’m having a moment here, dick.”

“Sorry,” Duncs sneaks out, still laughing. “What? You thought you were the only one?”

Pat shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

“Kaner, never change.” Duncan shakes his head and goes back to the cupboard. Pat shrugs, and goes back to cutting onions.

***

Patrick manages to get out of his head enough to help Duncs and Seabs bring the card tables up from the basement storage locker to set up in a long line from the living room to the kitchen. There are a lot of them. Blackhawks and girlfriends and kids. Pat’s honestly looking forward to it.

The doorbell rings and Pat goes to answer it, still dressed in sweats and an over-large t-shirt that must be Seabs’. Sharpie’s on the other side of the door, holding a bouquet of fall flowers and grinning as he eyes Pat’s body. “I wouldn’t have bothered if I knew you weren’t going to dress for the occasion,” he says, long-suffering, and thrusts the flowers into Pat’s chest.

“Ah, thanks?” Pat responds, closing the door behind Sharpie. “You’re early. And these are weird.”

Sharpie shrugs. “Can’t be early if you bring the party with you.” He waves at the flowers. “Give those to Duncs. He’ll appreciate them, cause he was raised by sophisticated folk.”

Pat lifts an eyebrow skeptically. “At least my mom knows that flowers shouldn’t be brown.”

“I know what else your mom knows.” Sharpie wiggles an eyebrow and Pat shoves him towards the living room.

“That’s not even funny.”

Sharpie’s right though, Duncs does appreciate the flowers. He says that they’re Fall-colored or something and puts them in a plastic vase-like-thing in the middle of the table, and then shoos Pat off to change and shower. It takes longer then it should. At five months, he’s beginning to show, and he should really go shopping for some larger shirts. His are worn and stretched, doing a little, but not enough, to hide the extra weight. 

He’s standing in front of the mirror, patting down the front of his shirt, when there’s a quiet knock. “Kaner?”

“Yeah, I’m coming.” He joins Seabs in the hallway. “We need to go shopping.”

Seabs eyes him, resting over his stomach before nodding. “Yeah. Tomorrow. After your doctor’s appointment.” He’s grinning, like this new development is, somehow, his doing when he’s been begging Pat to go for a month with little success.

“Duncs told you.”

“Yep. And we’re both going with you. It’s gonna be awesome.”

“The shit I put up with.” Pat shakes his head, and they start down the hallway as Pat muses. “So, if I’m not the only carrier in the league, who else do you think? St. Louis?”

Seabs shrugs. “Good bet. Datsyuk?”

“Don’t they test Russians and shit before they can leave the country? Throw them in jail?”

Seabs turns his head thoughtfully. “Maybe he snuck out.”

Pat bites his lip. “Maybe.” They’re just at the end of the hallway, when Pat asks, softly. “Hey, do you think they’ll ever be a time? When they’ll be a whole bunch of us playing and no one will care?”

Seabs shrugs. “You never know.”

“Yeah.”

Seabs claps him on the shoulder and they head out into the party. In an effort to avoid Sharpie and Jonny both, Pat finds himself in conversation with Kelly Turco for most of the evening. She has her youngest, Finley, perched on her hip as she accepts the drink Pat hands her, trying, in some way, to play the dutiful host before Duncs yells at him. “You’re sweet,” she smiles.

Pat shrugs. “No problem.” Finley makes grabby hands towards him and Pat smiles, putting his own drink down. “Here. Kids tend to like me.” _And I need practice_. 

Kelly hands him over. “He’s getting heavy,” she warns.

Pat lifts Finley into the air and the boy laughs, clapping his little hands. When Pat looks over, Kelly’s smiling at him.

“You’re good with kids. Ever think of having your own?”

His stomach turns. “Someday, yeah, I’d like to. Gotta meet someone first.” The lie hurts more than it should, and he fights the instinct to touch his stomach by wrapping both his hands around Finley.

“That shouldn’t be too hard.” She winks at him. “Sharpie’s been staring at you all evening.”

Her eyes are glinting in jest, but when he glances over his shoulder, Sharpie is watching him. And Finley. Watching him holding Finley, with eyes warm and soft and, Jesus, hadn’t Pat put an end to this? It’s ridiculous. It’s not going to happen. Sharpie is not part of the equation here. 

“Oh, Patrick.” Kelly puts her hand on his forearm. Her eyes are bright and big when Pat turns back to her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I was joking.”

“I know.” His voice is rougher than he’d like it to be. “It’s nothing. I didn’t mean to get- It’s not a thing.” 

He hands Finley over and she takes him, her voice low and serious. “He really was looking at you. If it was a thing, don’t let it go, okay?”

***

With nine home games in the month of December, it’s a make-or-break month. The Press won’t shut up about it, repeating over-and-over again that this is it, the pinnacle of their season, where their playoff chances will be decided four months early. The pressure is frustrating and overwhelming, made all the more so when Pat goes down two games into the month.

It’s his left knee. Forty-six seconds into the game. The announcers say that he had no chance, Sarich’s stick was between his legs, Pat had no chance to plant his foot. The truth is that Pat’s balance just isn’t what it should be. No matter how many hours he spends refocusing his center of gravity around the extra 12 pounds he’s carrying, it’s not working quite right and, when he saw Sarich coming, he rolled his ankle and fell. Plain and simple. It would be embarrassing if he weren’t in so much pain.

Mike Gapski helps him back to the locker room, depositing him in his stall with strict instructions to get undressed and meet him in the training room in five minutes. Pat’s limping, gritting his teeth as he balances on one leg and struggles to get his hockey pants off. He’s down to his under armor, his hands stretched over his head to reach for his sweatshirt when he hears a gasp.

“Paddy.”

Which is when he remembers that his parents were in the stands tonight.

“Mom.” Pat immediately drops his hands, turning gingerly to look at them. “Dad.”

Donna’s eyes are trained on his stomach. “Patrick?”

Pat drops his eyes. He’s never been good at lying to his mother, and he’s already been doing it for three months. Thankfully, he’d only been talking to his parents and sisters on the phone and seeing them for a game here or there, but never long enough for them to guess that something’s up. Here, though, with his under armor clinging to his stomach and his knee shooting hot bursts of pain every few seconds, there’s nowhere to hide.

“What did you do, son?” Patrick senior asks, gently, but without taking a step out of the doorway.

“I-” Pat swallows. His throat feels sticky and he can’t seem to get air into his lungs.

Donna lets out a sob and covers her mouth with her hands. It sounds loud and disappointed and helpless in the quiet of the locker room, and Pat closes his eyes, tightly, against the tears threatening to fall.

“I’m sorry, mom,” he whispers, moistly, his throat working overtime to get the words out, and then she’s there, her arms around him, her hair brushing against his shoulder, and she smells like childhood and safety and simpler times and, for just one, short, interminable moment, he allows himself to believe that it’s all going to be okay now that she’s here.

Finally, way too quickly, she pulls back and rubs her thumbs under his eyes. “I wish I could promise you that everything’s going to be okay.” She sounds apologetic, wet and sad and still disappointed, and Pat nods.

“I know.”

“I wish you would have told us sooner. We could have helped you. We could have helped you take care of it.”

Pat chokes. She looks so sorry and regretful and, when he glances at his dad, Patrick Sr. places a hand on his shoulder. “I wish you had trusted us, Patrick.”

Pat shrinks, pulling away from their touches and grabbing for his sweatshirt. It’s one of Seabs’, large and comfortable and good for hiding everything. He suddenly feels cold, cold where their hands were touching his shoulders, cold in his knee, his throat, his fingertips, and he burrows desperately into the sweatshirt. 

It’s not enough when his dad holds up his phone. “I’m gonna make a few calls. There are still some options, even as far along as you are. I’ll be back in a few.”

“No.” It’s out before Pat can stop himself, loud and definitive and Pat’s not sure where it came from, except he keeps flashing back to the clinic, and the old man with the papery skin, and Sharpie’s eyes, and Pat’s made his decision already. “No. I don’t need help. I made my decision months ago.”

“Patrick, surely you don’t plan to-” His mother furrows her brows, confused and skeptical and, honestly, Pat can’t really blame her. “The implications-”

“Kaner.” They all look up to see Mike Gapski in the doorway. “Trainer’s Room. Now.” 

Pat’s never been happier to see him.

It’s a sprained ACL. Three weeks, give-or-take. Pat counts himself lucky that it isn’t anything worse. By the end of the second, Mike lets the guys back, and they crowd in, giving him fist pumps and grinning at the short diagnosis.

“3-2. We’re gonna win, while you laze around in here.” Jonny thumps his shoulder, and Pat shakes his head.

“Dumb luck.”

Jonny scoffs. “Get better and prove we need you, okay?”

“Right.” Pat smiles, grinning when Jonny leaves to go prepare his pep talk and Duncs, Seabs, and Sharpie take his place.

“You scared us,” Duncs murmurs, a little more seriously then the situation warrants.

Sharpie frowns, but punches Duncan’s shoulder. “Mother hen.” He shakes his head and shares a conspiratorial wink with Pat.

Pat grins. “Always.”

“Coach wants us back, but we’ll wait as long as you need after.” Seabs squeezes his shoulder and Pat cringes.

“Yeah, no driving for a while.” He freezes. “Also, um, my parents, they’re here and,” he glances at Sharpie, trying to say what he needs to say without saying it, “they met me in the locker room. I was only wearing my under armor, you know?”

Sharpie makes a face. “Eww. No one wants to see that.” But he reaches down, where no one else can see, and squeezes Pat’s hand. “Get better, Peekaboo.”

“Yeah, I get you.” Seabs squeezes his shoulder again, Duncs bumps his good knee, and Pat knows that they understand. Sharpie gives his fingers a squeeze. Then they’re gone, but Pat’s finally starting to feel warm again.

***

Pat doesn’t see his parents alone before Duncs and Seabs take him home. He has a brace and crutches and a lot of painkillers that he’d really like to take. “Do you think they’ll hurt the baby?” He asks, worriedly, narrowing his eyes to read the labels on them.

Duncan pulls the first bottle from his hands and sits down at the laptop sitting on the breakfast nook. He types away for a while, biting his lip and frowning at the screen, while Pat grabs a bag of ice and puts his knee up. He’s half asleep by the time Duncs hands him one of the three bottles.

“This one should be okay. It’s the weaker of the three,” he offers, apologetically. “But, it’s safe.”

“Yeah.” Pat takes three with the water bottle Duncs also hands him. “Thanks.” He removes what is now a bag of lukewarm water, and stands. “Fuck, that hurts.”

Duncs helps him to his room, placing the crutches next to the bed and lowering Pat into it. “Pat, I don’t wanna ask, but, your parents?”

Pat shrugs. “I’m really tired. Can we-? In the morning?”

“Course.”

Except, by the time Pat’s up and showered and three pain pills in, his parents are already there. Sitting at the kitchen table, eating Seabs’ mushroom and onion omelet, and flipping through one of the pregnancy magazines Pat had left there days ago. Donna looks up when he enters, the sound of his crutches against the linoleum broadcasting his arrival.

“We went to your apartment this morning. Mail was piling up.” She points to the large box of bills and magazines and junk mail at her feet. “Jonny said you were staying here. I thought, maybe, he was-” She bites her lip and Pat flushes. It’s been months since he thought of Jonny as anything other than his best friend, but the reminder still hurts.

“He’s not. He doesn’t even know.” Pat rubs the back of his neck. “Duncs and Seabs have been helping me out. They’ve been amazing.”

“They went for a walk,” Donna answers his unspoken question. “Does anyone else know?”

Pat shakes his head. “No.” He tilts his head. “Well, Dustin Brown.”

So far, Pat’s dad has been quietly eating his eggs through the conversation, but now he puts down his fork. “Of the Kings?”

“He played with me in Vancouver, yeah. You met him. A couple times.”

“Do you trust him?”

“More then I trust you right now.” It comes out bitter and childish and, Jesus, Pat had kind of hoped that pregnancy would make him less of a twelve year old, but apparently not.

Donna clasps her hands together and places them on the table by her plate. “We’re sorry, Patrick, but it was a lot to take in. We’ve always been worried that this might happen, but we figured you’d tell us, and we’d take care of it before it could ruin your career. You surprised us.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Pat rests his crutches against the cabinets and gingerly takes a seat at the table, resting his knee on the chair next to him. Donna pushes another plate of eggs towards him. He doesn’t touch them. “Dustin’s brother carried two kids to term. He gave me the name of a doctor. He’s discreet,” he adds, quickly, before his father can object.

Patrick Sr. closes his mouth ruefully, but then leans forward, resting his chin on his hands. “We’re trying to understand why you’d do this, Pat. After everything you’ve been through, after everything we’ve sacrificed. All of us, your mom and I, your sisters. You’re throwing it all away.”

Pat closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before looking at them both. “I don’t see it like that.”

“Jesus.” Patrick Sr. slams his fist down on the table and stands, starting to pace in the small kitchen. “Do you hear what you’re saying? You’re a carrier. You don’t understand that, do you? Your mother and I, we always thought you were mature enough to understand what playing hockey would mean for you. There are sacrifices you have to make.”

Pat wishes that he could stand, even if he’s still a few inches shorter then his father, but his knee is aching painfully, so he just clenches his fists and sets his jaw as he looks up at him. “I have made sacrifices, dad. I’ve been making them since I was thirteen and mom took me to that clinic in Niagara Falls. This isn’t one I’m willing to make.”

“So-? What’s the plan? You’re going to give up hockey to, what? Raise this child. Alone. Because I don’t see a father.”

Pat flinches. “I’m not going to give up hockey.”

“What?”

“I’m going to keep playing. While I raise him. Or her.”

“Patrick,” Donna reaches across the table to take his right hand in hers. “I don’t think you understand how hard it is to raise a child. It takes a lot of work and time and, with the stigma against carriers-”

“I know. I know, okay?” Pat squeezes her hand. “That’s why I want to do this. I want to show the world that carriers can be professional athletes and have children and be normal. I can do this.”

“You’re so naïve,” Patrick Sr. groans, resting back against the stove and folding his arms across his chest. 

Donna frowns at him, before turning back to Pat, her voice gentle and diplomatic. “It’s not that we don’t understand why you’d want to, but that’s a lot of pressure to take on. As a parent and an advocate and a teammate. Do you really think you’re ready to take on that responsibility?”

“Yes,” Pat says, without hesitation, and his mother sighs, reaching for his hands and taking them in hers.

“You’re only 22. Maybe if you wait a few years?”

“No,” his father interrupts. “You have a choice, son. You can either play hockey, or you can do this thing where you stand up for carrier rights. There’s no in-between. No matter how old you are.”

“It’s not that simple.” Pat insists.

Patrick Sr. shrugs. “From where I’m standing, it is.”

“Well, from here it’s not.”

Donna squeezes his hands to get his attention back. “I think you know we’re right. How far along are you?”

The question surprises a truthful answer out of him. “Five months.”

Donna’s face softens. “You would have told us months ago if you knew you were doing the right thing.”

Pat swallows. “I didn’t tell you because I was scared. I didn’t know how you’d react. You’ve never wanted me to accept that I’m a carrier.”

“We didn’t want it to hold you back. You’re so talented. You can be so much more than just your biology. Your father and I, we know that life hasn’t dealt you a fair hand, but you’ve persevered and look how far you’ve come.”

Pat had always assumed that’s how they thought about it. Honestly, Pat had thought of his carrier status as something to overcome his entire life, too, but he doesn’t want to think like that anymore. “It’s not perseverance. I’m proud to be a carrier. I’m happy that I’m in a position to do something about how badly we’re treated.” 

He swallows. That’s probably the first time he’s spoken out loud about carriers as ‘we’ instead of ‘them.’ It feels empowering and terrifying at the same time. “I know you don’t understand but, mom, dad, this is a good thing. I wasn’t happy with all of this at first, but I’m learning to accept myself and,” he shrugs, “I love this baby. You have to understand that, at least?”

Reluctantly, slowly, they both nod.

“See, we’re not so different. I- Just- Give me a chance, okay? Let me try this?”

Patrick Sr. sighs. “You’re making a mistake.”

Pat shrugs. “Maybe.”

“But, it’s your mistake to make.”

Pat nods. “Thank you.” He turns to Donna. “Mom?”

She shakes her head, tears pooling at the edges of her eyes. “You’re our son. We don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I know.”

She leans forward and rests a hand on his cheek. “They grow up so fast.”

Pat doesn’t know if that’s a statement about him, or a warning about his own child, but he takes it as the tacit understanding that it is and doesn’t push any further. “Can I eat now?”

Donna gives a watery laugh. “Sure, baby.”

His dad sits back at the table, his shoulders still stiff and unhappy, but at least no one’s yelling anymore. Neither of them understand yet, but maybe, just maybe, they’re on the right path. He smiles, turning to his eggs. 

When Seabs and Duncs come home an hour or so later, Pat’s parents are gone and there’s a crayon image of a superhero on the refrigerator with a big C on his chest and the caption, “Super C, breaking down carrier misconceptions, one at a time.”

Duncs shakes his head. “Kaner must have found your word-a-day calendar again.”

***

Two days later, they play Dallas. Pat hasn’t had the best week. His knee is still bitingly painful and he has to lie to the trainers when they ask why he isn’t taking the better pills. They warn him that, at this pace, they’ll have to add a week to his recovery. There’s nothing he can do but shrug. Then there’s his parents, who left for the airport immediately after their breakfast/fight, and haven’t talked to him since. It’s the first time since he left for Juniors that he’s gone two days without talking to at least one of them. It leaves him feeling jittery and off-kilter.

He watches the game from the Press box, dressed in a suit, wearing an ear piece, and intermittently staring at his phone and willing it to light up with a text or a phone call or a picture or, well, anything to prove that his family hasn’t given up on him.

When it finally buzzes, Pat jumps, but it’s only Sharpie asking him out with the team to welcome Bur back to Chicago. Pat grabs a ride with Duncs and Seabs and they get to the Chop House in time for Pat to steal the chair next to Bur before Sharpie can.

“Kaner,” Bur exclaims, pulling Pat into a one-armed hug, careful of his knee.

“Missed you,” Pat tells him. “Off the ice. On ice, not so much.”

“Fuck off.”

Pat shrugs and opens his menu. “Just telling it like it is.”

Bur also opens his menu and frowns. “Steakhouses, I missed. You, nah.”

“Whatever.” Pat scans the menu while talking, trying to figure out whether ordering two baked potatoes would be suspicious, given that he hasn’t played, or worked out even, in a few days. “Don’t deny our love.”

“Never, Kaner. Never.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Pat sees Sharpie enter with Hammer and Bollie and take a seat at the end of the table, almost out of earshot of Bur. It’s strange, sitting next to Bur, razzing him about Dallas and his day with the Cup and bragging about the Bears, without Sharpie there. But, Pat’s distracted by steak and good company, and he doesn’t think much of it until he comes out of the bathroom half-way through dinner to find Sharpie and Bur in the hallway.

Pat almost joins them, but then he takes a closer look. Sharpie’s arms are crossed, his feet spread to keep himself balanced a good two feet from Bur, who’s looking anywhere but directly at Sharpie. Pat doesn’t move from his place around the corner, resting his weight on his crutches, and watching as Bur buries his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders. “I’m an asshole.”

Sharpie nods. “You are.”

“But, so are you.”

Sharpie pauses, bending his knee and placing his foot back against the wall. “Maybe.”

“No, Patrick, I am not taking all the blame for this. I pushed, and I’m sorry for that, but it was two fucking years of foreplay and I’m not the only one to blame for thinking that it was more.”

Sharpie sighs, but his stance doesn’t loosen. “I know, I know. You weren’t the only one, I know that. But, I was so angry.”

“I get that.”

“And I freaked.”

Bur scoffs. “You can say that again.”

“But,” Sharpie continues, cutting him off, “I had every right to.”

“It wasn’t my fault. Dallas wasn’t my fault.”

“It was. A little.” Sharpie insists. “But, I wasn’t just angry at you for leaving. I was angry at you for not starting something when we had more time. I was angry at the organization, and the salary cap, and, fuck, I was even angry that we won the Cup, because suddenly everything was changing and I had no control over it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Sharpie shrugs. “Maybe.”

“And I never started anything because I thought you didn’t want me to.”

“I didn’t.” Sharpie sighs. “Not really.”

“I don’t-” Bur pulls his hands out of his pockets and rubs the back of his neck in frustration. “You’ve gotta help me out here because I swear to God, we’ve been friends for years and I still have no idea how to read you.”

Sharpie looks away. “You were always-” He waves his hand between them. “There. Waiting. Ready. For when the time was right. It just never was.”

“And now?”

“And now.”

Bur makes to take a step forward, but Sharpie holds up his hand and Bur stops. “Is there,” he clears his throat. “Is there someone else? Now?”

“No.” Sharpie jerks his head. “Well. Maybe. Not anymore.”

Pat chokes because, him? Does Sharpie mean-? Except, he can’t, because they slept together a few times and Pat’s the one with secrets in their relationship, non-relationship thing. He slips back to the table as well as he can on crutches before he can dig his thoughts any deeper.

***

Christmas is Pat’s favorite time of the year. Trees, lights, egg nog (sadly Whiskey-free this year), carolers, outdoor skating; all the things that Pat has traditionally associated with home and family and comfort. 

This year, they have games on Sunday and Wednesday of Christmas week, so they do a family skate Monday morning, followed by a shopping expedition to Michigan Avenue. Pat’s knee is getting there, good enough to trade his crutches for a strong brace, but not good enough to lace up his skates and join the boys and their girlfriends on the ice. Instead, he spends the hour in the stands with Turcs’ youngest, Finley, playing a hockey-themed version of hide-and-seek. 

“He’s a handful,” Pat mutters, still trying to catch his breath as he hands Finley back to his parents.

“Won’t be long now,” Seabs singsongs, wrapping his arm around Pat’s shoulders and leading him away from Turcs.

“At least I’ll be off the brace by then.”

Seabs raises an eyebrow. “That brace is the least of your worries.”

“Low blow, man.”

“Hey, dickheads,” Sharpie whistles to get their attention as they near the car. “Stop whining and get in the car. It’s Christmastime.” 

“Shoes,” Pat announces, ignoring Sharpie as he lifts himself into the back seat of Sharpie’s car. “I need shoes.”

“Two closets full of Nikes aren’t enough?” Duncs asks, twisting in the front seat to look at him.

“Not when I get them for free.”

“Yeah, yeah, sponsors, we know.”

“Someday you’ll be as cool as me.”

“God help us all,” Sharpie adds, and Pat barely waits to make sure they’re at a red light before he hits Sharpie over the head.

“Anyway,” he starts as he settles back into his seat. “They’re not for me, they’re for my sisters. Jackie told me that’s what they want.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Duncs says, turning back around in his seat.

Two hours later, Pat is doubting Duncs’ words, his sisters’ sanity, and his life choices. “I mean, who would put _me_ in charge of shoes? There are so many colors. And styles. And heels. Who knew heels came in different heights?” He whines, only to be met by blank stares from Duncs and Sharpie.

“Here, try these.” Seabs thrusts a box into Pat’s hands, and Pat sighs. Half-an-hour ago, hungry and desperate, Seabs had decided that this wasn’t working because they didn’t have a model and, as their brother – and therefore possessing the same bone structure? – Pat should model all their options.

Which is how Pat ends up at Macy’s, a fashion scarf around his neck and a Louis Vuitton purse in the crook of his elbow – “to make it more realistic,” Seabs promised – and $300 neon pink pumps on his feet.

“It’s a good thing you have small feet,” Seabs muses, his chin in his hand as he tips his head to look at Pat’s feet from a different angle.

Behind them, Sharpie snickers, and Pat twists to give him the finger. 

“What?” Sharpie asks, still asking. “You look good in them.”

“I hate you,” Pat tells him, then twists back around to glare at Seabs. “I hate all of you.”

“You really don’t.” Sharpie stands, wondering away into the next aisle and finding a pink thong. He drops them into Pat’s hand and leans in to whisper, “These match.” 

“God, I hate you,” Pat repeats, dropping the panties, the scarf, and the bag to the floor.

“I know,” Sharpie grins and, damn him, Pat was just starting, maybe, sometimes, to get over the feeling he gets when Sharpie does that.

Pat does find three pairs of shoes that he thinks – hopes – his sisters will like, and they all find team Secret Santa gifts before they head out onto Michigan Avenue. It’s crowded with shoppers and carolers and Salvation Army volunteers. As snow flakes begin to fall, sticking to Pat’s nose and his ears and his jacket, and the sun sinks below the buildings, it feels a lot like Christmas and, on a whim, he wraps his arm under Sharpie’s and huddles close.

“Merry almost-Christmas, Kaner,” Sharpie whispers, looking, desperately, like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t.

They pull apart as they hit the stairs down to _Billy Goat Tavern_ , which is located under Michigan Avenue. They’re half-way down when they hear it. In the underpass, sparingly lit in yellow artificial half-broken lights, the sounds of flesh-on-flesh. For one laughable moment, Pat thinks that someone’s found a nice corner to have a little pre-Christmas hook-up, but then the groans grow louder and that’s not what’s happening at all.

“Fucking whore. Who do you think you are, huh?”

Thwack. Crack. Scuffle.

Skin against skin, fist against sternum, spine scraping against cement. 

“Please, stop, not there just- not the baby.” Sob. “Hit me as much as you want, just, leave the baby alone.”

“That baby is an abomination.”

“No, please, no-”

Pat has never hated being injured as much as he does in that moment, but Seabs and Sharpie have already taken off, rounding the corner and swearing, and the sounds of fighting increase before Duncs and Pat are there. The attacker is big, but he’s already running away from Seabs and Sharpie and Pat doesn’t spare him a glance as he kneels down in the dirt and the pavement and the blood around the carrier.

Pat’s hands move expertly over his body, knowing what he’s looking for with the cuts and the broken bones, but when he reaches down to check on the obviously pregnant stomach, the guy jerks and pushes him away. “Don’t. Don’t touch me.”

“Hey, hey,” Pat catches one of the flying hands, holding it in both of his. “I’m a friend, okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Go away.”

“You’re injured.” Pat’s own stomach roils as he spares a look at the mess of the man’s clothes. “I want to check the baby.”

The man looks away, his eyes glazed and empty and wet. “There’s no point.”

Pat doesn’t want to lie. He takes a deep breath around the sob in his chest.

“Leave me here. I don’t deserve- Everything I touch dies. Just, leave me.”

“I won’t.” Pat shakes his head, holding onto the man’s hand hard enough to break bones, because this feels like it. His life choices, laid out before him, and he can’t stand it, can’t stand any of it anymore, and he feels a hand on his back. “I can’t.”

“Kaner.”

“We have to help him,” Pat says, looking around wildly and seeing Seabs kneeling next to him.

“You have to get up.”

“I’m not leaving him.”

“Duncs and Sharpie are going to get him to the hospital. I’m gonna take you home, get you cleaned up.” Seabs leans closer. “You don’t wanna be seen here, yeah?”

And, fuck, Pat wants to argue, but he has so much to lose and he can’t risk a Deadspin article with a large picture of him crying, covered in blood, clutching a carrier’s hand at the hospital. “Fuck,” he murmurs, before allowing Seabs to pull him up, away from the blood and the death and the carrier’s despair.

They take a taxi home, and Pat goes immediately to the shower, washing away the grime for what must be at least thirty minutes, until his skin is raw and pink and he can no longer feel the blood and dirt or smell the hamburgers on his body. He dresses in the most worn sweats he has and joins Seabs in the living room.

Seabs is pacing. He hasn’t showered, hasn’t even changed, and he’s clutching his phone in his hands when Pat walks in.

“Do you think he-” Pat starts, swallows, starts again. “Could he have survived that?”

Seabs stops, taking in Pat’s appearance, and shrugs. “I don’t know. He was in pretty bad shape.”

“Yeah.” He moves over to the couch and curls in the corner, pulling his knees to chest. His feet are bare, and he buries them under the couch cushions. “I’ve never been much of a fighter, but it’s part of our sport, and I get it, but-”

“It’s not the same,” Seabs finishes, gingerly sitting on the other side of the couch.

“It feels different.”

“Yeah,” Seabs agrees. “That wasn’t a fight.” Pat lifts his head in question. Seabs shakes his head, his eyes bright. “That was a hate crime.”

Pat drops his head back to his knees. They sit like that, silent, scared, worried, until the key twists in the door and Seabs jumps up from the couch to pull Duncs in for a hug and a long kiss.

“Duncs,” he whispers, all his worry – about the carrier, about Duncs and Sharpie, about Pat and the baby – seeping out in that one word.

“I’m okay,” Duncs soothes him, rubbing his hands along Seabs’ back. “I’m-” Duncs face twists and Pat can see it over Seabs’ shoulder. “I’m not good, but I’m okay.”

Seabs squeezes him tightly for a few more, long moments, before stepping back far enough for Duncs to motion Pat over to them. Pat uncurls himself from the couch. “Where’s Sharpie?”

“I dropped him off at home. He was upset.” He reaches out, curling a hand around Pat’s neck and pulling Pat to his chest. “You’re such an idiot.”

“I’m not,” Pat protests, automatically.

“You are,” Duncs insists, his voice watery. 

Pat lifts his head, frowning. “He was hurt. I couldn’t just leave him.”

Duncs shakes his head. “You are so stupid. And reckless. And brave. And I am so angry, but I’m also so fucking proud of you.”

Pat swallows, not knowing what to do with Duncs’ anger or his pride or anything else about this night. “Is he- is he gonna be okay?”

Duncs’ hand tightens around both of them. “I don’t know. We weren’t relatives, so we couldn’t stay. I left my insurance information, so they’ll do whatever they can.”

Seabs laughs, a sad, wet, laugh. “God, Duncs, you’re the idiot.”

“I couldn’t do nothing.” Duncs squeezes Pat’s neck.

“Thanks,” Pat murmurs, placing a hand on his stomach. “I can’t imagine-”

“You don’t have to,” Seabs promises. “You’ll never have to imagine. That will never be you.”

Pat wants to believe them, but he’s not sure that he can.

***

Sharpie comes over on Christmas day, for the first time since that fateful shopping expedition. Duncs, Seabs, and Pat are having a lazy day in front of the TV, eating non-nutritionist approved snacks and watching _The Mighty Ducks_ , when Sharpie appears with his mother’s homemade monkey bread.

“Your mom’s my favorite,” Pat tells him as he licks the cinnamon sugar from his fingertips. “I might just ask her to marry me.”

“My dad might have something to say about that.” But Sharpie hands over a second piece of bread.

Pat shrugs. “I’m not worried. I’m a famous hockey player, did you know?”

Sharpie laughs and Duncs kicks him off the couch.

“Ow,” Pat whines. “Assholes.”

They get half-way through _Mighty Ducks 2_ before Sharpie asks, “Have you heard anything? About the carrier?”

Duncs straightens from where he’s lying half on top of Seabs. “He’s still in the ICU, but they think he’s going to make it.” Duncs glares at Pat, because they’ve already talked about this. A lot. And, as much as Pat wants to go visit, he knows that he can’t, not in his condition, with the media breathing down their necks, and they’re already taking enough of a risk by tying Duncs’ name and insurance information to the whole incident. 

“The baby?” Sharpie asks, and Pat has to look away, from Duncs and from Sharpie, because he never would have expected Sharpie to care, not about a beat-up carrier, and certainly not about a carrier’s kid.

Duncs shakes his head. “No.”

“That’s so sad,” Sharpie says, sincerely. “I’m glad we were there, even if we couldn’t save everyone.”

Pat has something warm and happy lodged in his stomach for the rest of the afternoon, and, when Sharpie asks him to take a walk later, Pat knows he should say no. He should say no. This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. Sharpie’s arm is warm across his shoulders, his thigh pressed against Pat’s, and Pat can’t help the memories of the other night running through his head, Sharpie smiling and worried and defending that carrier over and over again. “Sure.”

They dress in heavy coats and gloves, heading out into the light dusting of snow. It’s not yet dusk, but the sun is throwing heavy shadows across the near-deserted Chicago streets as they walk. It’s quiet and companionable, and Pat’s reminded of Christmases growing up, when he and his sisters would get so rambunctious by mid-day that their mother would bundle them up and send them out to build snowmen.

“Thank you.” Pat says, quietly, into the snow and the stillness. “For helping the carrier, the other night.”

“Yeah,” Sharpie says, looking somewhat taken aback. “Of course.”

“I mean, I know you wouldn’t leave someone to get beaten up like that, but, still, he was a carrier and you could have-” Pat sighs. There’s so much he wants to say, so much of this story that Sharpie doesn’t know, has no way of knowing, and for one stupid brilliant moment, Pat considers telling him. All of it. But, the moment passes, and he settles on, “Just, thank you.”

They’re just getting back to the apartment and Sharpie holds out a hand, grasping Pat’s forearm and turning Pat towards him. “Hey.” He takes a step closer, resting a hand on Pat’s hip and leaning forward for a kiss. Pat knows, with certainty, that this is the kiss Sharpie wanted to give him days ago on Michigan Avenue, before the carrier, and Pat leans into him, the warmth and the smell, and, God, this is what it should be. Them, together, a family, and it all comes crashing together with a certainty Pat has never felt before. An impossible, futile, absurd _rightness_ that settles deep in his chest.

Sharpie pulls away, breathe warm and damp against Pat’s lips. “Merry Christmas,” he whispers, before pulling back and opening the door to the apartment.

Pat’s chest aches with the loss of something he never really had.

***

Pat doesn’t do anything for New Years Eve. In fact, he even falls asleep between the ball dropping in New York and the time the clock hits midnight in Chicago. Even so, he’s finding it difficult to get up the next morning.

“Pat.” Duncs knocks on the door, for the third time, and through his half-sleep haze, Pat can hear Duncs sigh as he leans his shoulder on the doorframe. “Car’s leaving in two hours. Get your shit together.”

Pat rolls over, trying to ignore the way his stomach muscles protest the movement. He feels tight and achy, more swollen then he did just yesterday. He’d read about this in the parenting magazines Seabs’ leaves around the house, how carrier pregnancies start out slow, then, at some point around the fifth month, speed up rapidly. Pat should count himself lucky that it’s taken six months for him to put on pregnancy weight, and all that entails.

“Your omelet’s getting cold.” Seabs this time. Pat groans, burrowing further into his pillow. “Don’t bitch to me when all you have to eat is airplane food.”

Which, Seabs has a point. Pat’s stomach growls in protest, and it’s almost enough to get him up, but the bed is warm, the sheets have formed a little cocoon around his body, the world is blissfully dark and headache-free with his eyes closed, his ankles barely ache when he’s lying down-

The knock seems closer this time. “Forty-five minutes. Get up.” Duncan’s voice is practically in his ear, and then the quilt is being pulled from his face and, oh, that’s why. Duncs is perched on the edge of the bed, peering at Pat, halfway between worried and frustrated as hell.

“I’m really tired,” Pat tries.

Duncs opens his mouth, closes it, and Pat’s prepared for it before he even says anything. “Maybe you should sit this one out. It’s just two games – we’ll be back in three days. Take this trip off.”

Pat struggles to sit up, kicking Duncs’ hand away when he reaches out to untangle the sheets from around Pat’s knees. Pat glares. “I’ve got it. I’m all good.”

“You’re really not.”

“I really am.” Pat throws his feet over the side of the bed, holding onto the wall to keep his balance as he stands. “I’ll be out in 20. Seabs better have fresh eggs waiting.” He goes for reassuring and settles on asshole, but Duncs doesn’t say anything as he watches Pat walk, slowly and unsteadily, to the bathroom. 

***

“Hey, Kaner, you okay?” Sharpie asks as Pat climbs, gingerly, over the boards.

“Fine,” he grits out. They’re halfway through the third period, down 2-1 to Anaheim, and despite a good start, Pat isn’t feeling any steadier then he was twenty-four hours ago. “We just need to score.”

“Right.” Sharpie looks straight ahead, then bumps Pat’s shoulder and drops his voice. “You look off balance. You sure you’re okay?”

He isn’t. He took twice his normal nap that afternoon, but his center of balance is thrown off by his new baby weight, and it takes all his effort to stay upright and balanced on the ice. The ice has always been where he’s felt most comfortable, and to feel unsteady on it is off-putting and upsetting and a host of other things he doesn’t want to think about.

“Fine.” He dares a glance at Sharpie, whose face is drawn, a wrinkle between his brows that Pat wants to- “Still getting over New Years, you know?”

Sharpie frowns. “Sure.”

Pat purposefully misreads Sharpie’s worry for jealousy. “I’ll invite you next time, yeah?”

“Sure.”

Pat taps Sharpie’s knee with his glove on his way back out.

They lose. 2-1. Pat doesn’t get a point. He barely registers a shot on goal. If he wasn’t so tired by the time he gets back to the hotel, he’d head over to Jonny’s room so that they could drown their frustrations in vodka shots and NBCSN replays. If he wasn’t so tired.

***

“We’ll be better today, eh?”

Pat finishes tying his left skate before he looks up to see Sharpie standing over him, so close that their knees are almost touching. Pat swallows, wracking his brain for a distraction. “Wager?”

Sharpie grins. “Most goals buys dinner after the game.”

“Most points.”

Sharpie tilts his head, thinking, then nods. “Points.”

“Deal.” Pat holds out his hand and Sharpie takes it, grinning.

“I expect steak, Peeks. And I’m not one of those room service guys. I expect steak. Expensive steak. From a restaurant.” 

Pat barks out a laugh. “In your dreams.”

“Mmm, and wouldn’t you like to know what I dream about Peek-a-Boo?” Sharpie grins, walking backwards to his stall and nearly tripping over the skate that Seabs left in front of his stall. Catching himself, Sharpie winks at Pat, before turning to get himself ready for the game.

Pat grins to himself. He knows that Sharpie was just trying to cheer him up, but Pat’s not about to scoff at methods that produce good results. 

As he steps out on the ice for warm-ups, he is feeling better then he did yesterday. More balanced on his skates, his ankles less swollen and his stomach muscles less achy. Not perfect, but better. 

The whole team seems to be in the same boat. They’re certainly playing better then they did against Anaheim, but they’re sloppy and undisciplined and Coach Q spends the first intermission yelling himself hoarse. When he’s done, Pat’s got a headache brewing at the base of his neck, and he pops the two Advil that Duncs hands him without a complaint. 

On his way back out to the ice, Sharpie waves him over gleefully. “1-0 Peeks. There’s a Morton’s down the road calling my name.”

In the second, Pat picks up an assist, but it’s Sharpie’s goal and Sharpie takes their goal celebration as an opportunity to scream, “2-1, Patty-cakes,” wetly in his ear. It doesn’t do much to stave off Pat’s headache, or his frustration. Usually, the competition would push him, fuel his feet and his hands, but tonight all it does is throw him off-balance.

“Hey, Peeks, you okay?” Seabs pushes Jonny out of his stall so that he can take a seat next to Pat during the second intermission.

Pat shakes his head, clearing his eyes. “I’m fine. Good, yeah?”

Seabs frowns. “Not really, no.”

“Well, I am.” Pat leans down to re-tie his left skate, evading Seabs’ gaze.

He knows he’s wrong the minute he steps out on the ice for his first third-period shift. His balance is off, his head is off, and when Jonny passes him the puck behind the Kings’ net, it takes him a moment too long to figure out what to do with it.

He hears the hit before he feels it. The sharp cut of skates on ice, the clunk of bodies against boards and glass, a grunt from the body pressing against his back, pushing Pat up and forward. Instinctively, he bends forward, covering his stomach as best he can, and then his world goes black.

***

It’s not an illegal hit. Mitchell’s stick doesn’t come up. He doesn’t use his elbows. Pat has every chance to defend himself, but he doesn’t. And he doesn’t get up.

A hush falls over the bench.

Duncan drops his gloves, but it’s a quick fight and no one else moves. Pat still isn’t getting up.

Mike Gapski is still standing behind the bench, peering around Hoss’ shoulder, and Seabs can’t stand the fluttering feeling in the pit of his stomach. He skates over to the bench, holding his arm out and shouting, “What are you waiting for? He needs help. He’s pregnant.”

A hush of a different kind falls over the arena.

***

The ambulance takes Pat to the California Hospital Medical Center, just a few blocks from the Staples Center. He’s admitted to the carrier maternity ward, and the walls are painted in light blues and pinks and there can be no mistaking about his condition, now. Seabs has time to feel sorry about that, as he sits in the waiting room, clutching Duncan’s hand and picturing Pat, lying on the ice, unmoving.

“He’ll forgive you.”

Seabs rests his chin in his free hand and turns to Duncs. “He trusted us.”

Duncs squeezes his hand. “I love you.” It’s not very comforting.

The door opens, slowly, unsurely, and Jonny slips his head into the opening. “Ah, hi, can I?” He steps forward, holding a bag in front of him. “I brought clothes?” It’s a question, a concession, a peace offering, and if Seabs wasn’t still dressed in under armor and smelling of sweat and wet leather, he’d have half a mind to refuse. 

Instead, Duncan stands, meeting Jonny halfway and taking the bag from his shaking hands. It’s full of Hawks sweats, and Duncs strips in the middle of the waiting room. Seabs doesn’t move from his chair.

“Um, I’m just gonna-” Jonny gestures to a row of chairs across from Seabs and sits down. He rests his elbows on his knees and drops his head into his hand, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck. “Have they-? The doctors-?”

Duncs shrugs, pulling a grey t-shirt over his head and digging through the bag for a larger set of pants. “They said it’d be a while.” He hands the pants to Seabs.

“Right.” Jonny looks at the floor. “I suppose this takes a while. With- You know- People like-” Jonny can’t say it.

The room grows silent. Seabs changes, shoving his dirty clothes back into the bag and throwing the bag under his chair. He takes Duncs’ hand again.

“How long have you known?” It comes out forced, as if it took physical effort for Jonny to push the question past his teeth.

“Months.” Duncs levels Jonny with his dark-eyed stare, and Seabs shivers. “He came to us, after the clinic.”

Jonny visibly starts, and his head comes up to look at them. “He went? I assumed he hadn’t-”

“He went,” Seabs growls. He’s angry, frustrated, worried, and his throat feels raw and red with it. “He didn’t disobey you, Captain.”

Jonny flinches. “I’m sorry. I-” Jonny swallows. Seabs watches his Adam’s apple rise and fall. “He told me- I forced him to tell me, and I didn’t know what to do. I haven’t ever- I didn’t know what to _do_. I was so afraid. It was the only thing I could think of- I assumed he went.” Jonny repeats. “I believed him.” His voice is small, watery, distant.

“He went,” Duncs repeats, again, gently. “But he couldn’t go through with it. I’m sure you’ve read about what those clinics are like in the papers.”

“Yeah.” Jonny drops his head to the side, peering at Duncs sideways. “Jesus. I’m an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Duncs agrees, shrugging. This time, Jonny doesn’t flinch. “There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Jonny nods his consent.

“Why didn’t you go with him?” Duncs voice is neutral, curious, but he squeezes Seabs’ hand. A warning, a confirmation, Seabs isn’t sure .

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?” Duncs tries to pull him back, but Seabs ignores him. “Because you’re a homophobic asshole?”

“No.” Jonny’s chair bangs against the floor as he stands, his whole body vibrating. “I’m not. I was- Fuck, I was jealous, okay?”

Duncs’ fingers clamp down on Seabs’ palm, and Seabs knows, instinctively, that this is what Duncs had wanted when the conversation began. He keeps his mouth shut, and Duncs’ fingers loosen, wrapping gently around his wrist.

“Jesus.” Jonny sits down, hard, and he buries his head in his hands. When he speaks, his voice is raw and wet, a little awed as if it’s all just starting to make sense to him. “It should have been me. I should have been the one to- But I didn’t realize. I didn’t realize I wanted- And then it was too late. It was all-” Jonny looks up, gesturing with his hands. “- there. Physical proof that he didn’t feel the same way and I was _so_ angry at him. And now-”

Duncs leans forward; his voice gentle, but firm. “You know that you can’t, right? You can’t do that to him.”

“I know, I know.” Jonny rubs his hands restlessly through his hair. “I’m too late. I’m always too late.”

Seabs’ anger floats away, leaving behind a profound sadness. He shakes his head, smiling a little. “You’re an idiot.”

Jonny lets out a surprised little laugh, forced and dark. He leans back in his seat and relaxes his shoulders. “Yeah. I know.”

***

Slowly, the waiting room fills with a procession of Hawks players. Bolly. Brouwer. Soupy. Dowell. Jammer. Kopecky. Crow. Turcs. 

Hoss is the last, and he takes the empty seat next to Seabs. He sits quietly for a moment, reading the room of quiet, uncomfortable, worried hockey players, then leans closer to Seabs. “Am glad you knew. Glad he had someone.”

Seabs nods, not trusting his voice, and Hoss pats his bicep before turning back in his seat and beginning a murmured conversation with Kopecky in Slovakian. The steady stream of rapid, low noise breaks something that had been sitting, ominous and suffocating, over the room, and everyone starts talking at once.

“Seems like we should have known.”

“Kelly noticed something, at the Thanksgiving Party. I should know by now not to ignore her. Stupid.”

“I always assumed he was gay.”

“I’ve been giving him a hard time all season.”

“Me too. He wasn’t partying-”

“- always wearing those oversized shirts-”

“Yeah, I mean, I figured- I don’t know. Shouldn’t have given him crap for it, at least.”

“We should have asked,” Crow says in an undertone, before clearing his throat. His cheeks burn as the room quiets and even Jonny turns his head to look at him. Crow looks down at the floor, tracing the edge of the linoleum with his toe as he speaks shyly. “Trevor – ah, my brother, Trevor, he’s a carrier. I didn’t know. My parents never told me. I, um, well, I always knew he was different, but I didn’t get it, you know?” Crow’s breath hitches, and he swallows, his back straightening but not looking up from the floor.

“He disappeared when I was 12. I kept asking where he was, but my parents told me to focus on school and hockey. I was having trouble with my glove hand that season and,” Crow shakes his head, “I almost forgot that Trevor wasn’t around. He showed up eight months later, with pictures of a little girl in a pink hat and a large scar on his stomach. He- It doesn’t matter. Just, he was terrified. And I wasn’t there. And Kaner’s looked the same way, all season, and I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. So, I just- didn’t ask.”

Next to him, Turcs squeezes his shoulder.

Someone clears his throat from the doorway. “Seabrook and Keith?”

“Yeah.” Seabs scrambles up to shake the doctor’s hand. “Is he-” 

“I’m Doctor Singer. Patrick’s blood pressure is high, and he’s got a few nasty bruises, but he’s going to be fine.”

Seabs lets out a deep breath, reaching his hand out for Duncs’. “Can we see him?”

“Room 223. Only a couple at a time, though. He’s on a lot of medication right now.”

Patrick looks pale and exhausted in the crisp hospital bed, and there’s a bandage on his right hand where the IV must have been, but at least he isn’t connected to any machines. He turns his head when they enter, offering them a small smile. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Seabs moves forward, taking his left hand gently. “How are you feeling?”

“Great.” Pat tries to grin. “I’m on a medically-prescribed high. How bad can I be?”

Duncs laughs from his place by Pat’s feet. It’s watery. “Doctor Singer said the baby was okay.”

Pat’s injured hand hovers over his stomach. “Yeah. He’s okay.”

Seabs feels breathless. “He?”

“Yeah. They did an ultrasound.” Pat rests his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes. “So, um-,” he licks his lips, “everyone knows, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Seabs agrees, squeezing Pat’s fingers. “Most of the team’s in the waiting room.” He pushes Sharpie’s conspicuous absence away, because it’s so unlike him and Seabs doesn’t want to think about what that might mean right now.

“Are they mad?”

“No,” Duncs says, louder then he needs to, and he wraps his fingers around Pat’s ankle, grounding himself. “No, they’re not mad. They’re worried.”

“Oh.” Pat opens his eyes, but doesn’t look at either of them.

Seabs squeezes Pat’s hand before he lets it go. “They wanna see you. Can we send them in? Two at a time?”

“Um,” Pat bites his lower lip. “I guess that’d be okay?” It’s a question, but Seabs decides to take it as agreement.

He plans on sending Crow back, and maybe Hoss, but Jonny’s already outside Pat’s room when they leave. “No,” Seabs says, before Jonny can even ask.

Jonny frowns. His eyes are red and he’s wringing his hand together. When Seabs glances down, he sees that Jonny’s cuticles are red and swollen from where he’s been picking nervously at them. Seabs sighs. “Don’t upset him.”

“I know. I won’t. I just need to- thanks.” Jonny slips past them, closing the door softly, and leaning against it, waiting.

“Jonny,” Pat whispers, without turning his head. He knows it’s Jonny, would know his breathing anywhere.

“Pat, I’m-” Jonny steps forward until he bumps the side of the bed with his hip. “I’m the worst kind of idiot,” he admits, trying to smile, and it forces a laugh from Pat’s throat.

“The worst.”

“It’s not an excuse, but I really did believe you.”

“You were supposed to.” Finally, Pat turns his head to look at Jonny. Maybe it’s the hit or the drugs or the heady relief that his son is okay, but Pat doesn’t want to walk this line anymore. “I didn’t want you to.”

“I’m sorry,” Jonny whispers, sincerely, and maybe he gets that this is what he should be sorriest for.

“It’s okay.” Pat tells him, gently. He isn’t lying. “We were never gonna work anyway.”

“We could have.” Jonny insists, closing his eyes and leaning his thighs against the bed to hold himself up right. “If I had only figured it out sooner. We could have been great.”

He sounds some mix of wistful and acquiescent, and he must know, he has to, but Pat needs to tell him. So that this can be over, and they can both move on. “I loved you.”

“I know that. Now.” Jonny’s hand reaches out, but he stops in the air above Pat’s hand, his fingers clenching and unclenching rhythmically. “I loved you, too. I just didn’t know.”

“Yeah.” Pat smiles. Six months ago, Pat would have done anything to hear that. Now, he feels nothing but a slight tug of regret. “I figured.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about that, too.”

“Thanks.” Jonny’s mouth thins, and Pat shakes his head. “I’m serious. It means a lot to hear you say it.”

“I’ll keep saying it.” Jonny insists. “For as long as it takes for you to forgive me.”

“I forgive you. As much as I ever can, anyway.”

Jonny flinches. He pulls his hand back, out of the air, and shoves it into his pants pocket. He’s silent for long moments, and Pat watches as Jonny’s mind works to bury any possible futures he may have imagined for them. Pat gives him time and, eventually, Jonny shrugs and offers Pat a small, but real smile. “Well, at least you don’t have to be alone anymore. You’ve got about seventeen babysitters in the waiting room.”

Pat laughs. “If this kid’s anything like me, I’m gonna need them.”

Jonny laughs. “We should ask your mom what we’re getting into.” He takes a step back, motioning towards the door. “I should go, let someone else come back.”

“Sure.”

He backs away, slowly, not taking his eyes from Pat’s. He stops at the door, for a moment, “I really am glad that you’re okay,” and then he’s gone.

***

Pat’s emotions are exhausted and he’s running on nothing but medicinal-fueled adrenaline by the time Seabs and Duncs appear again at his doorway with Dustin Brown and Willie Mitchell in tow. “Up for two more?” Duncs asks, then offers, “Everyone else has gone back to the hotel.”

Pat doesn’t ask about Sharpie. He doesn’t know how to. Instead, he nods, and manages a reassuring smile when Brown steps forward immediately to squeeze Pat’s knee. “How’re you feeling, Kaner?”

“A little wrung out.”

“Yeah.” Brown shrugs. “Brandon always said the end of the second trimester was the worst.”

“Also, the hit to the boards,” Pat adds. From behind Brown, Mitchell visibly stutters, and Pat bites the inside of his lip. “Sorry.”

“No.” Mitchell steps forward, around Brown, and stands at the end of Pat’s bed, twitching from foot to foot. “I’m sorry for the hit. I didn’t know- I was going for the puck and I thought it was clean but-”

“Hey.” Pat can’t move, but Brown squeezes Mitchell’s bicep for him. “It’s okay, man. I saw the replay and it was clean. No hard feelings.”

“The baby?” Mitchell asks, gruffly, looking down at his knuckles, white and strained where he’s clutching the bedrail.

“He’s fine,” Pat assures him. 

“Good. Ah, good.”

Brown grins, squeezing Mitchell’s arm harder before letting go. “Don’t strain yourself, Mitchy.” 

Pat laughs, but it turns into a yawn. “Sorry.”

“No, we should be going.” He grabs Mitchell’s sleeve and pulls him away. “I’m glad the baby’s okay.”

Pat smiles, finally allowing his hand to settle over his stomach. “Me too.” The door clicks shut and Pat rests back against the bed. “I’m, ahh,” he speaks through his yawn, “gonna fall asleep.”

“You do that.” Duncs laughs, settling on the other bed in the room. “We’ll be here when you get up.”

***

The sun is just starting to rise, throwing slivers of oranges and reds and yellows through the blinds, when the door to Patrick’s room bangs open. He turns his head, eyelashes matted together with only a few hours of sleep. Sharpie’s framed in the doorway, his jacket unzipped, hair limp, dress pants heavy with the dirt and slush along the hem, his face twisted with an express that is ragged, crazed, sorry.

“Is it mine?” He whispers. 

Pat struggles to sit up, his elbows dragging and slow. He nods.

Before Sharpie has the chance to answer, Seabs has him up against the wall, forearm pressing between his neck and chin, pinning him.

“Seabs, no-” Pat whimpers, but his voice is blistered with sleep and Seabs either doesn’t hear him or ignores him in favor or pressing harder.

“Seabs,” Sharpie chokes out, coughing weekly.

“No.” Seabs shakes his head, pressing harder. “You don’t get to talk. You just- No.”

“Please- Let me-” Sharpie’s voice is tight, cut off by Seabs’ arm and his own weariness.

“What did I say?”

“No?”

“Yeah. No. You haven’t said anything for six months, you don’t get to now. It’s been _six_ months.” Sharpie’s body sags, letting Seabs take his weight. “Where have you been?”

Sharpie doesn’t answer. Seabs surges forward. “Huh?”

“Can I-?” Sharpie coughs. “Can I talk now?”

It’s not really meant to be flippant, but it’s just so, so Sharpie that it surprises a chopped little laugh from Seabs. He pulls his arm back and Sharpie sinks to the floor, resting his elbows on his knees and looking up, at Seabs, at Pat behind Seabs. “I’m sorry,” his whispers, his voice raspy and raw.

“Sorry,” Seabs says, then shakes his head. “Actually, no, I’m not.” But, he does reach down to help Sharpie to his feet.

“He didn’t know,” Pat whispers, looking at them both with wide, red, dark-rimmed eyes. “He didn’t- It’s not his fault. I never told him.”

Sharpie makes an aborted step forward, telescoping his intentions to go around Seabs, who just glares, protective, warning, and Sharpie stops. Instead, he speaks to the room at large. “I should have realized.” He looks, pleadingly, at Pat. “I never guessed you were a carrier.”

Pat shrugs, looking down at where his fingers are picking at the wrinkles in his sheet. “You weren’t supposed to.” _Not you. Never you._

“I could have guessed. If I’d paid more attention. If I hadn’t been so busy-” _trying to get you into bed_. “Not paying attention,” he finishes, lamely, glancing at Seabs.

Pat almost laughs. At the ridiculousness of it. At what they could have had, maybe, if they had been given the chance to figure their shit out. But, now, there are so many things stretched between them – the baby; a heap of lies reaching all the way back to their first meeting at training camp three years ago; Seabs and Duncs and Jonny and Bur – and Patrick takes the moment to mourn what could have been.

“Seabs,” Pat turns his head to see Duncs, sitting quietly on the other bed, watching everyone. “Duncs, can you give us a minute?”

Duncs catches Pat’s eye, but Pat nods, and Duncs places a hand on Pat’s shoulder before grabbing Seabs’ wrist and dragging him, reluctantly, out the door. Sharpie flinches when he hears the door click closed, and then he stands there, for long moments, staring at the linoleum and swaying on his feet.

On the bed, Pat brings his knees to his chest and huddles over them, following Sharpie’s unsteady movements with his eyes. Finally, he whispers, “I’m sorry. I should have told you- There are so many things I should have told you.”

“Yeah.” Sharpie takes a few steps towards the bed, closing the space between them by half, without looking up. “You should have. Before-” He clears his throat. “Before that first night. And, well, and after.”

Pat frowns. “It wasn’t supposed to matter. I thought I was on the shot, then I wasn’t going to keep it. It wasn’t supposed to matter.

Sharpie’s head snaps up. “That was your plan? Get rid of all evidence so that you could- what?”

“Play hockey.” Like it’s the most obvious think in the world.

“Play hockey,” Sharpie repeats, slowly, testing the words.

“Yeah,” Pat snaps.

“Right.” Sharpie’s anger fades, and he closes the rest of the distance to the bed. “I’m glad you didn’t go through with it.”

“Me too.” Pat looks away. “I didn’t do it for you.”

Sharpie flinches.

“You weren’t _ever_ supposed to know.” Pat repeats because, somehow, he feels like it’s important for Sharpie to understand this.

“I can’t believe-” Sharpie’s anger is back, full force, and he starts to pace the distance from the bed to the door, and back. “I kissed you. You _let_ me kiss you. Two weeks ago. And you were going to, what? Have this baby, call it a one-night stand, and leave me to wonder, always, why it has my eyes? What was the plan?”

Pat shrugs in the face of the full force of Sharpie’s pain. “I didn’t have one.”

“Jesus.”

“No, listen.” Pat’s hand reaches out, snagging Sharpie’s wrist the next time he paces near the bed. “I couldn’t, okay? I’m a carrier. I’m a hockey player. And I decided to have this baby. I can’t have it all, and until I know which part I’ll have to give up-” He shrugs, tightening his fingers on Sharpie’s wrist, willing him to understand. “I don’t get to make plans.”

Sharpie pulls his wrist out of Pat’s fingers, but he doesn’t move away. “You should have trusted me. We could have done this. Together.”

Memories flood through Pat - Sharpie lying, naked and sated, in bed; Sharpie joking with him in the locker room; Sharpie pulling him close in the snow, kissing him under the mistletoe – and Pat has a sudden, wild, desperate realization. “Do you love me?”

Sharpie flinches, then visibly relaxes his shoulders and sighs. “I was getting there, these last few months, but- not yet? I don’t know. You’ve- you’ve taken months away from me, with you, with this baby, and I need to work on forgiving you. Before I can think about anything else.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you?”

Pat looks at him.

“Love me?” Sharpie clarifies.

Pat shakes his head, “Please, don’t ask me that. I can’t just- Not right now, okay?”

Sharpie opens his mouth, like he wants to push, to argue, to get Pat to tell him _something_ , but he doesn’t. Instead, he spreads his hand, his fingertips just brushing against Pat’s. “You need to know – whatever I feel or don’t feel or whatever – this baby is separate from all of that. I wanna be here, okay? I’ve already lost so much time already. I don’t wanna lose any more.”

Pat turns his head on the pillow, away from Sharpie’s imploring eyes. “I wish I could believe you.”

“Pat-”

Pat bites his lip, sighing through his teeth. “You just don’t know, alright? You’ve known I’m a carrier for, what, twelve hours? You don’t know what it’s going to be like. How dangerous it’s going to be. That kid- last month- he could be me, so easily.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Pat turns his head, his cheek resting on his bent knees. “Thank you. For thinking that.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do. Right now. But, just know, I’m not going to hold you to it.”

They’re at an impasse, and, when Duncs sticks his head in to say that it’s time to catch the bus, Sharpie sighs, deeply, his limps feeling heavy. “I’d stay, but, Coach was pretty explicit about everyone getting on the bus on time.”

“Yeah,” Pat murmurs, a wry smile on his lips, trying not to make it obvious that this, right here, is exactly proving his point. Sharpie has a life, with hockey and responsibilities and options, and Pat just- doesn’t have that luxury anymore. “Go.”

Sharpie presses a quick kiss to Pat’s forehead, then is gone.

***

Pat is discharged the next morning, twenty-four hours after the team has boarded the bus back to Chicago. To his surprise, the team’s booked him a first class ticket for early afternoon, a show of support that has Pat feeling suspiciously choked and wet around the eyes. 

Coach Q had stopped in briefly the day before, and it might have been that Pat was rubbed raw from his conversations with Jonny and Sharpie, but Q’s gruff “take care of that kid” and “Liz has already volunteered to babysit” had sounded like all the approval that Pat has been missing from his own family. With the promise that his conversation with Stan and Rocky would go similarly, Q had left, awkwardly and rushed and wonderfully, to catch the bus to the airport. It’s exactly what Pat had needed.

Despite the overwhelming shows of support from his teammates and his organization, Pat is in no way ready to deal with his fans. His former fans? He doesn’t want to have to find out, so he slips into a logo-less black hoodie and non-descript Nike hat before heading to the airport. It’s a long four hour flight to O’Hare, and he spends most of it wishing that he could accept the wine offered freely in the First Class cabin. 

He doesn’t expect anyone to meet him at the airport. He’s starring down at his phone, absently playing Plants v. Zombies, automatically heading towards the taxi pool, when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Kaner.”

“Ahh,” he looks up and Sharpie’s there, dressed similarly non-descript in a pair of designer jeans and a black t-shirt. “Hi.”

Sharpie grabs for Pat’s shoulder bag – the rest of his stuff had gone with the team yesterday – and slings it comfortably over his own shoulder, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. “Good flight?”

Pat shrugs. He loses another shrub to a particularly ugly zombie and he sighs, locking his phone and slipping it into his pocket. “Fine. Long. I napped.”

“Good. That’s, ah, that’s good. You probably need more of that now?” Sharpie’s voice goes up at the end, like it’s a question, and Pat shrugs.

“I guess. Can we, um-” He motions towards the exit and Sharpie starts, as if he’s only just realizing that they’re standing in the middle of O’Hare’s busy and over-sentimental arrival zone. 

He blushes and holds up his keys. “I’m in short term parking.”

Pat falls into step beside him, scratching the back of his head and wishing that he didn’t smell like airplane. “Shouldn’t you be in practice? I can’t believe Coach Q let you out for this.”

“He loves you, Peeks,” Sharpie tells him, sing-song, and Pat gets the distinct impression that he’d be getting a noogie right now if things weren’t so strained between them. “Plus, practice ended hours ago.”

Right. Time changes. But, still, “I was gonna take a taxi,” he pushes, because he doesn’t want to get used to this. He can’t.

Sharpie frowns, glancing at him, before adjusting Pat’s bag and starring straight ahead again. They’re hit with a chilled burst of air when they leave the terminal, and after a few days in Southern California, Pat can’t help but shiver. 

As they wait for traffic at the crosswalk, Sharpie watches him, still frowning deeply. “I know. But, Coach Q mentioned you’d be getting in tonight. It’s a long flight and-” Sharpie’s hands twitch and Pat watches them, fascinated. “I know there isn’t much I can do for you, or that you’re going to let me, but this, this small thing, it’s something I can do, alright?”

Pat gives Sharpie one of his media-approved grins. “I never turn down a free ride.”

Sharpie’s BMW is in the garage, and it’s still mostly-warm when they get in. Pat appreciates the thoughtfulness, even if it makes him a little uncomfortable. He rests his forehead against the window, watching the city grow bigger and bigger the further they get from O’Hare. 

When they pull up in front of Duncs and Seabs’ apartment in Lakeview, Sharpie puts the car in park, but makes no move to get out. “I’d come in but, ahh, Seabs is still kinda angry and- I’m gonna give it a few days.”

Pat laughs, and it’s real this time, the warm pinch of affection he feels for his team. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“No problem.”

He waves a genuine little wave from the curb, before taking the steps two at a time. He hadn’t realized how ready he was to get home, but the Christmas lights are still wound around the banister and the wreath is still on the door, and, as Pat lets himself in, he allows himself an almost hopeful smile.

***

The most surprising thing about the whole debacle is how little media attention it gets. The team puts him on indefinite IR, sighting a lower body injury that the media doesn’t question. The video of the hit makes the rounds for a few days, and Mitchell gets a one-game suspension that Pat feels a little guilty about, but then it’s forgotten. No one digs through his hospital records. No one asks what Seabs had yelled to get Gapski onto the ice.

For the first week or so, Pat’s life doesn’t change much. His sense of normality is helped along by a four-game home stand, complete with a three-game wining streak. Pat still goes to practices with Duncs and Seabs. He isn’t allowed on the ice anymore, but he spends the time discussing plays with Q and the assistants, getting checked out by the team doctors, running through lite work-outs in the training room, and, on slow days, watching the team from Bowman’s office in the rafters of the UC. On game nights, he hangs out in the locker room with the guys, still imposing his awesome music choices until someone – usually Duncs – wrestles the iPod from him, and then he watches from the press box. In some ways, he feels more a part of the team then he had before.

Until, that is, the team goes to Nashville and Pat is left watching the game from Seabs’ and Duncs’ couch, his phone poised on his knee, waiting for texts and calls that don’t come. It’s stupid, really. It’s only one game – a home-and-home that means they won’t be gone for more than twenty-four hours. But, suddenly, it’s too quiet in the apartment, a reminder of what it’s going to be like, for the rest of the season, maybe for longer, and with a painful rush of understanding, Pat knows that he’s been fooling himself.

Everything’s changed. And it’s never going to change back.

The careful handling, too-bright smiles and too-tentative shoulder bumps, voices higher then they should be as they ask him how he is, no mention of his season-ending injury, no mention of the baby. It had all seemed normal, because it was the same as it was before. 

But, that isn’t right. Things should have changed. His teammates should be treating him differently. He’s been hiding this huge, massive, scandal-inducing secret since the moment he joined the organization, and no one is saying a word about it. Perhaps it’s repression, or false hope, or a deep desire to pretend like none of it’s happened. It’s a self-delusion that Pat doesn’t have the luxury of adopting. 

When Duncs and Seabs get back from the road trip, they have Sharpie in tow, and the three of them crowd Pat on the couch with hugs and exaggerated cheek-kisses and jokes about stay-at-home moms that stab at the pit in Pat’s stomach even as he laughs. He lets it go long enough for the smell of airplane and hotel room and popcorn – what, did they get a microwave on the plane in his absence? – to overpower him, and then he’s shoving them up, off the couch, and into the bathrooms.

Sharpie uses Pat’s, and when he comes out, dressed in sweats and wet hair in waves against his forehead, Pat ignores the way that Sharpie smells overpoweringly like Pat’s body wash. Sharpie sits next to Pat again, this time with a few inches between them and no touching. Pat sighs, rubbing his face. It’s a long night.

When Sharpie goes home, and Seabs and Duncs finally go to bed, Pat books a flight to Buffalo.

***

“Who wants the privilege of driving me to the airport?” Pat bounds into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table and stealing a handful of strawberries from the bowl in front of Duncs.

“Ahh-” Duncs blinks at him. “We were going to go to the movies. _The Green Hornet_. Seemed like your thing.”

“Seems like Seabs’ thing,” Pat challenges, looking pointedly at Seabs. He finishes his strawberries and gets up to dig the cereal out of the cupboard. “Rain check?” He asks, without turning around.

“Sure,” Seabs tells him, slowly, around a mouthful of oatmeal. Then, “Forgive me if this is a stupid question-”

“No question is stupid, Biscuit. Hasn’t Q taught you anything?”

“Q thinks all questions are stupid.”

Pat shrugs, filling his bowl with milk and dropping back into his seat at the table. The milk sloshes over the side of the bowl, and Duncs hands him a napkin as he rolls his eyes.

“So, forgive me, but,” Seabs starts again, “where are you _going_?”

“Buffalo.”

“Buffalo?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

Pat shrugs again. “I won’t be able to travel much longer, and there’s the All-Star Break, and I haven’t seen my sisters since August.” He’s not exactly lying, per say.

“Okay.”

“So, I can have a ride?” Pat pushes, getting them back on topic.

“Sure,” Duncs agrees, and Pat goes back to eating his cereal before it gets soggy.

***

Pat really should have known, though, that that wasn’t going to be the end of it. Duncs and Seabs help load his suitcases into the car and when Seabs raises an eyebrow at the (arguably) excessive amount of luggage, Pat doesn’t think he buys the, “What? I’m a growing boy,” argument.

When they get to O’Hare, he’s proven correct when Seabs gets out of the car with him and doesn’t relinquish his luggage on the curb. 

“I’m good,” Pat promises. “I’m gonna get one of those trolley things.”

“Sure,” Seabs agrees, but he grabs Pat’s two larger bags and walks in front of him into the airport. Pat watches him go for a moment, then turns, blows an exaggerated kiss at Duncs through the car window, and joins Seabs in the line for United.

“They get mad at you when you park in the drop-off lane.” Pat drops his carry-on on top of the pile by Seabs’ feet.

“Jigsaw’s got it.”

“You sure? ‘Cause they get really mad.” Seabs glares and Pat shrugs. “Don’t blame me when Duncs gets yelled at by a little old lady traffic cop.”

“Kaner-”

“What?”

“Stop.”

Pat looks away.

“I want to make sure that this isn’t about Sharpie.”

“It’s not.” Pat says, automatically, then amends. “Not entirely.”

“I’m still pissed at him, but, he’s been trying,” Seabs says, frowning, and it’s obvious that he’s still reluctant to say anything nice about him.

“I know,” Pat sighs. “I just-” He rubs the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at Seabs. “Everyone’s trying so hard to pretend that things are normal, but, they’re not, you know?”

“They think that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Pat insists. “It is what I want, but- It doesn’t matter what I want, anymore. And things are never going to _be_ normal.” He rests his hand on the swell of his stomach, well-hidden under one of Duncs’ over-sized Michigan State sweatshirts. “Not for me.”

“You gonna check-in?” The woman behind them asks, her voice lined with frustration, and Pat jumps, dropping his hand and helping Seabs drag the bags to the counter.

Pat hands his card over to pay for his bags – god, he hates flying commercial – and then he’s left with just Seabs and his carry-on and, suddenly, he feels nervous. It’s been months – practically his whole pregnancy – since he’s been without Duncs and Seabs, and if that one night when they were in Nashville was too much, Pat’s not sure how he’s going to get through the next few weeks. Without them. Without his team.

Seabs must be feeling similarly bereft, because he stops just before the security line and pulls Pat into a hug. “You’re coming back, right?”

He sounds desperate, as if he’s terrified of Pat’s answer, and Pat’s stomach clenches. “I’m coming back,” he promises. Of course he is. Chicago is his home. “I just need some time.”

“I get that,” Seabs smiles, but his eyes are suspiciously glassy.

“I’ll call. All the time.”

“You better.”

“Don’t tell Sharpie. At least, not ‘til I get there.”

Seabs looks like he wants to argue, but then he sighs and nods. “He’s going to be furious.”

“I know.” Pat looks away, wanting to ask, wanting to hear Seabs promise. “Keep an eye on him for me?”

“Yeah.” And the way Seabs is looking at him, Pat is sure that he knows how Pat feels.

“I should go.” He adjusts the strap on his shoulder. “Long line.”

“Right.” Seabs smiles ruefully. “I left Duncs in the car.”

Pat laughs, then forces himself to take a step back, grinning as Seabs starts giving him a stupid little wave, even thought he’s only a few feet away. He doesn’t turn around, though, until he hits the back of the line.

***

Buffalo in January is cold, and Pat had been stupid enough to buy a house on a lake. So, cold. And snow. Lots of it. Pat hadn’t told anyone but Erica that we was coming, and she meets him on the curb, dressed in the elegant winter coat Pat had given her when she sold her first house last year. Pat’s chest clenches, proud and regretful and more then a little bit worried, all soothed as Erica rushes forward, ignoring the bags in his arms and pulling him into a hug.

“Paddy.”

“Hey,” Pat breathes, burying his face in her scarf and breathing deeply. “Thanks.”

“Always,” she murmurs, squeezing him and then stepping far enough back to hit his shoulder. “Although, I’m not gonna keep this quiet for much longer.”

“You don’t have to,” he promises, grabbing his bags and lifting them into the trunk of Erica’s Explorer. “I’m coming to dinner tonight. I just didn’t want to do this at the airport.”

“Good.” Erica climbs in and starts the car. “Your place?”

“Yeah.” They should stop at the grocery store or something, but flights make Pat exhausted these days, and all he wants is a nap. Preferably, with his sister there. “Do you have to go back to work?”

She shakes her head as she pulls onto the highway. “I took the afternoon off. Perk of being a realtor.”

He reaches across their seats to squeeze her hand. “Thanks.”

She flashes him a grin. “I expect a payoff. Preferably paid in shoes.”

He laughs. “I can do that.”

“There’s a new place on Onondaga that carries Manola Blahniks-”

“I’ll leave you my credit card,” he interrupts.

“I don’t wanna go without you. That defeats the purpose of shopping.”

“I think that’s exactly the purpose of shopping.” He glances down. “And I’m not doing a lot of shopping these days.”

They’ve pulled off the highway onto the long drive to Pat’s house, and she risks glancing over. “Didn’t Duncan go to MSU?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“Don’t get any ideas.” Pat rolls his eyes, feeling his cheeks flush, and he rests his forehead against the cool panel of the car window. “I don’t really fit into much.”

Erica laughs, and it’s ridiculous and annoying and so utterly familiar that Pat can’t help grinning. “You’re the worst sister ever,” he mutters. 

“Better get used to it,” she tells him primly, turning into his driveway. “I have months of teasing to catch up on.”

It’s a painful reminder, and there are so many things that he wants to say, but she’s already out of the door and bounding into the house. Pat follows more slowly, dragging his suitcases, and frowning when he gets inside.

“You couldn’t have turned the heat on?” He asks, rubbing his hands on his arms and glaring at the thermostat.

“You called me this morning,” she accuses, appearing from the kitchen. “I just turned the hot water on.”

“Thanks.” He turns the heat up to 80. “It’s gonna take a while to warm up. Nap?”

“Sure.” They leave the luggage downstairs and head upstairs. Pat’s extremely glad that he pays a cleaning lady to show up once a week, because the room is clean and freshly laundered, and he makes a beeline to the bed. For her part, Erica digs through his drawers for a pair of sweats, changing quickly and burrowing under the quilts with him.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you’re not mad.”

She laughs. “Oh, you’re not getting off that easy. I’m still mad.”

“I already promised you shoes, woman. What more can you want?”

Her smile falls, and she pushes herself up on an elbow, shivering in the cold air. “You lied to me. For months. You stopped calling and you didn’t let me visit and-” Her voice waivers and she rubs angrily at her eyes with her free hand. “You needed me and you didn’t tell me and I am so angry at you.”

“I didn’t want to get you involved,” he protests and it sounds like ash on his tongue. “Yeah, sorry, forget I said that.”

“Good idea.” Pat doesn’t say anything and she sits up, crossing her arms over her chest and pulling her knees up. “You need to give me something here, Paddy. I need to know what I did to lose your trust.”

“You didn’t-” Pat says quickly, scrambling to sit up, angling his body to face her as she shakes her head against her knees. “No, listen to me. You didn’t do anything, Erica.”

“Then why?”

Pat rubs the back of his neck, training his eyes on her knees, rather then her face. “I haven’t had a lot of luck telling people. Mom, Dad. Jonny. I trusted them and-” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”

She loosens one of her hands and reaches it out to grasp Pat’s forearm. “Mom and Dad? They’re okay now.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Jonny, too. Sort of.”

She snorts. 

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a yawn. “I really am tired,” he admits, motioning towards his stomach. “He needs a lot of sleep.”

“Don’t blame the baby. You’ve always needed a lot of sleep. He’s innocent.” But she unravels her limbs and lies down next to him, not fighting when he pulls her into a loose hug.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he murmurs into her hair.

She hesitates, but then rests a hand against his stomach. “You’re here now.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. Because she’s here and warm and comfortable, curling against his chest just as she had when she was little and they’d curl into their mom’s bed after a long day of playing outdoors. She’s family, and she’s exactly what he needs.

***

Dinner that night goes exactly as he’d expected. His parents are polite and supportive, if more distant then he’d like. Jackie and Jessica are angry, but they follow him home that night and the four of them build a pillow fort in the living room before passing out in piles of bedding on the floor. 

The next morning, they’re woken by Donna, armed with coffee, donuts, fruit, and twenty years of rousing four children before they want to be. The girls grumble and whine, but Donna sends them into the showers with a few well-placed words and splashes of cold water, leaving Patrick, his mouth grimy and his back aching, with their mother in the living room. He struggles to stand up, bracing himself on the edge of the couch and groaning.

“No more sleeping on the floor,” Donna tells him, her voice filtering in from the kitchen.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he murmurs, making his way in and exchanging a kiss on the cheek for a bowl of fruit. “Morning.”

“Good morning.” She glances up from cutting melon to give him a quick smile. “Go brush your teeth, then come back so I can yell at you properly.”

Pat does better than that. He takes a shower, changes his clothes, and brushes his teeth. Everyone’s in the kitchen when he gets back, eating breakfast and chatting loudly about plans for the day. Erica’s filling up three travel mugs with coffee and she hands one to each of her sisters. “If we leave now, I can drop you both off.” She kisses Donna on the cheek, then Pat, resting a hand on his stomach as she does so. “I’ll drop by for lunch, okay?”

“I’d like that,” he agrees. Jackie and Jessica both give him kisses and promises of dropping by later, too, and then they’re gone and the house is quiet. He hooks his leg over a stool and reclaims his bowl of fruit. “So-” He starts, then stops. This is ridiculous. He’s been teased for being a ‘momma’s boy’ his whole life for a reason, and, despite himself, he’s not going to stop wanting her approval anytime soon.

“Eat your fruit.”

“I am.”

“Those boys are feeding you, aren’t they?” Pat assumes that she means Duncs and Seabs, and he nods. She looks skeptical. “You’re looking thin. For seven months.”

“Six and a half,” he corrects. “And carriers show late.”

She hands over a piece of toast, coated in butter and honey. “Even so-.”

He accepts it, taking a bite and closing his eyes as the sweetness hits him. It’s enough for him to offer, “The doctors say we’re both good.”

“Good.” She sits across from him, taking a bite from her own bowl of fruit. “You need to take care of yourself now.”

“I am. Mom, I am,” he tells her earnestly.

“Good,” she repeats. “I worry about you. No matter what your dad and I think about your choices, we worry.”

“Thanks.” He smiles ruefully. “I think.”

“And I’m here to help. For as long as you’re here.”

It’s not everything he wants, but it’s a start. He gets up, crosses to the other stool and hugs her. She grunts, but then her hands are on his back and he feels himself relax a fraction further.

***

Pat’s never really alone. His sisters have set up shop in his dining room, littering the table with textbooks and calculators and worksheets, and his DVR is suddenly filled with _Gossip Girl_ and _The Bachelorette_. Pat will never admit that he likes them as much as Erica does. 

It’s comfortable and easy, and he spends the first few days forgetting about hockey. He doesn’t hear from Sharpie. He doesn’t know how he feels about that, so mostly he ignores it. When Sunday comes around though, even ESPN is talking about the All-Star game, and he must be moping, because Jackie piles him out the door and into the car he bought her for her last birthday.

The hundreds of other times they’ve done this, Pat’s been the one to drive, but now Jackie’s old enough and Pat’s still feeling a little sore from the hit, so he doesn’t complain when Jackie climbs into the driver’s seat without asking.

“Losers choice,” she tells him as she hands over the iPod and starts the car. He futzes for a few minutes, scanning past Miley Cyrus and the _Little Mermaid_ soundtrack before he finds some old-school Eminem. He blasts it, turning the dial as far as it can go, and she rolls down the windows without being prompted.

It’s a beautiful day. Cold and clear, Lake Erie partially frozen over as they take side streets back into the city, and Patrick’s glad that he had had the foresight to grab gloves and his heavy coat as he spreads his arm out the window to catch the air. Jackie laughs, resting her elbow in the window and grinning as she chants, “all you other Slim Shadys are just imitating; so won’t the real Slim Shady please stand up, please stand up, please stand up.”

When they get into the city, the route becomes familiar. Jackie steers them through side streets Pat’s driven a thousand times, past their nursery school, their elementary school, and the middle school Pat attended until he left to play Juniors in Detroit. It’s all achingly familiar, but Pat keeps singing, rapping in his best Eminem impersonation, and Jackie just shakes her head, turning the volume down as they pull up to the McDonald’s drive-through.

Pat doesn’t stop singing, though, as he orders way more than his diet plan – his hockey or his pregnancy plan – allows, and loves Jackie for not blinking an eye. Holiday Twin Rinks is next door and when they enter, it looks the same is it did twelve years. There’s a Squirt team playing, and they settle into the bleachers with their food.

“Number 12.” Pat points towards one of the Buffalo Regals players with a french-fry. “He’s good.” 

“Mmm,” she agrees, finishing up her hamburger and scrunching up the paper. “I spent a lot of time here when I was little.”

Pat snorts. “You were seven when I left.”

“I still remember it,” she insists, resting back on her elbows and stretching out. On the ice, number 12 scores, and Pat stands up to cheer, knocking the rest of his chicken nuggets to the ground. “You’re an idiot.” She shakes her head.

Pat throws the nuggets into their garbage bag and grins at her. “He’s good, isn’t he?”

“Yes, Pat, he’s good,” she pacifies him, but when he settles next to her, his eyes fixed on the game, she takes a moment to watch. “Actually, he is pretty good.”

“Right?”

She nudges his shoulder. “Not as good as you were.”

He snorts. “No one’s as good as I was.”

“Good to know this pregnancy isn’t affecting your ego.”

He shrugs. “I’ve gotta keep something, right?” Her face falls and he kicks himself. “Sorry, I didn’t-”

“It’s okay.” She pauses. “I know this has been really hard on you.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He doesn’t say anything more until the period ends, but while the kids take a quick water break, he looks up at the rafters, where there’s a New York State Champions Squirt AAA banner that he’s still really proud of. “Sometimes, I think that I should come back here. Buffalo’s a nice place to grow up. He could play hockey here, where I did, and even if I retire now I can afford to send him to decent schools.”

He can feel her eyes on him, but he doesn’t turn his head. “You love playing.”

“I do, but, I could play here. Amateur leagues. Coach his teams.”

“You’d embarrass the shit out of him.”

She surprises a laugh out of him. “Probably.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love having you here, but-”

“I can’t come back,” he finishes for her.

“Nope.” She smiles a little sadly. “Chicago’s your home now.”

“Huh.” It surprises him that she’s right. Even here, in one of his favorite rinks in the world, he can recognize that it feels like nostalgia and joy and good memories, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore. 

“I expect a lot of trips to come visit my new nephew.”

“Flight’s are already booked,” he promises.

“Good.” She threads her arm through his and rests her head on his shoulder. They sit like that, watching the game, until number 12 scores again, and this time she jumps up with him, cheering and screaming and stamping her feet to make noise on the metal bleachers. Jackie’s always been his favorite.

***

Pat waits until everyone goes home before he curls up in front of the TV to watch the DVR-ed All-Star Game. Sharpie is playing like a man on fire, finishing the game with a goal, two assists, and the MVP award. It’s enough to make him grab for his phone and type out a quick text.

_u won me a car!!!!!!!_

It takes a few minutes, but then his phone buzzes.

_if I thought itd keep u away from that monstrosity u drive, id buy u all the cars in the world_

Despite himself, Pat’s a little impressed at Sharpie’s ability to type “monstrosity” in the same sentence that he shortens “you” to “u.”

_ahh sharpie u care_

In retrospect, it wasn’t the smartest thing he’s ever said, but before he can blow it off, he gets back, _u r an idiot_.

Pat doesn’t really know what to do with that. He types back, _back @ ya_ , and heads to bed.

***

“Kaner!”

Pat situates himself in front of his computer and waves as Duncs’ and Seabs’ faces swim into view in his Skype window. “Hey.”

“How’s Buffalo?”

“The awesome-est. How’s-?” Pat frowns. “Where are you again?”

“Edmonton.”

“Sounds cold.”

“It hasn’t stopped snowing since we got here.”

Pat takes his head. “I don’t know how Gags does it, living in a land that’s so miserable.”

“America’s stupid,” Jonny’s voice filters through as he shoves Duncs over and half his face appears on the screen.

“My country is awesome.”

Jonny roles his eyes, but Duncs jumps in before Jonny can start. “How’s your family?”

“They’ve taken over my house,” Pat sighs, long-suffering.

“You love it.”

“I need someone to pick up after without you two around.”

Seabs scoffs and Duncs falls off his seat laughing. It’s infectious and Pat finds himself laughing, deep, mouth-crinkling laughs.

On the other side of the computer, Pat hears a door open, and then Sharpie appears, a little blurrily, behind the guys. “I hear there’s a Texas Roudhouse around the corner. Anyone up for a steak?” He stops behind them. “What are you-? Oh.” He freezes. “Hey, Kaner.”

“Hey,” Pat whispers, then clears his throat. “Hey, Sharpie.” Even over Skype, Sharpie looks tired, and Pat frowns. Ever since the All-Star game, they’ve been texting at least once a day, and Sharpie has always seemed fine.

Duncs has stopped laughing, but he’s still off-screen. “I could do steak.”

Pat laughs. “Go, go. Leave me here. All alone.”

They’re all nice enough not to remind him that he’s the one who left, but then the door opens on his end and Erica enters, her heels clacking on the floor. “Mom’s driving me _crazy_. I’m staying here tonight.”

Pat grins. “Yeah, so, not so alone here. Ever.” He glances up as Erica kicks off her shoes and settles onto the couch across from him. “I’ve gotta go.”

Everyone waves their goodbyes, and, once he signs off, Pat sends Seabs a private text. 

_sharpie looks tired_

_long road trip_

Pat doesn’t really buy that, but then Erica’s begging for food and he sort of forgets about it in favor of being a good brother.

***

Pat should know better than to forget things like that, though. It’s a Sunday night; late enough that the girls have all gone home and Pat is dozing in front of the Oilers-Ducks game, partly because he likes to watch Gags whenever he can and partly because it’s the only thing on at this hour, when the doorbell rings, followed by a frantic series of knocks.

“Use your key,” Pat yells, grumbling as he struggles to his feet, bemoaning his sisters and their forgetfulness. Pat guesses that it’s Erica, who’s going through a bit of a phase with their mother and has been spending more nights here than not.

It isn’t Erica on the other side of the door, though. It’s Sharpie, looking road-wearing and ragged, and more than a little apprehensive.

“Ahh,” Pat starts, poetically, but he can’t seem to say anything else.

“Peeks.” Sharpie tries for casual and misses by a mile. “Nice house you’ve got here.”

“Ahh,” Pat repeats. He’d really like to say something else, he would, but Sharpie’s _here_ , dressed in casual jeans and a Blue Jays baseball cap and looking for all the world like he belongs, and Pat just can’t.

Sharpie grins, but it’s tight around the edges. “Your parents must be so proud of your grasp on the English language.” He clasps Pat on the shoulder and shoves his way inside, dropping his bag in the middle of the kitchen and then just standing there.

“Um,” Pat tries for a new way to fumble. “Did I know you were coming?” Because Pat’s been doing really well so far, but the doctor’s did warn him that pregnancy brings with it a certain amount of memory loss and, maybe?

“Nope.” Sharpie digs his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. It’s ridiculously attractive. “Surprise.”

“Um. Cool?” Pat tries, because he has no idea what’s going on here.

“You got anything to drink?” Sharpie moves towards the fridge. “Long flight.” He pulls out one of the beers Jessica’s been stashing there, and pops the top. “You shouldn’t be drinking, you know.”

“They’re Jessica’s.”

“Right.” Sharpie looks intense for a moment, like he wants to say more, but covers it with a large sip from the bottle.

Pat can’t help but stare. Because this is weird, Sharpie here, in Buffalo, in his house that’s somehow separate from his life in Chicago. Jonny hasn’t even been here. But, here Sharpie is, acting like he belongs here, and it all feels so familiar and normal and so close to what Pat wants, that he has to look away. 

“I was on my way to bed.”

“Perfect. I never sleep well on planes.” Which is a blatant lie, but Pat doesn’t call him on it as Sharpie places his half-finished beer in the sink and picks up his bag. “Lead the way.”

Pat starts up the stairs, hearing Sharpie behind him but not turning around to make sure. He stops at the second guest room, the one Erica hasn’t been using. The bed is still stripped from when the cleaning lady was there a few days ago, so Pat crosses to the linen closet and pulls out a stack of sheets and pillow cases. “Here.” He shoves them into Sharpie’s arms.

Sharpie glances at the room to his left. “The sheets are already on this one.”

“It’s Erica’s.”

“Okay.” Sharpie frowns, glancing from the empty room to the linens in his arms, then at Pat, hopefully.

Pat shakes his head. “Nope. Show up unannounced, this is the best you get.”

Sharpie shrugs, as if that’s a fair deal.

“Right, so, good night?”

“’Night, Peeks.”

***

Pat wakes up first the next morning. Unsurprising, since Sharpie looked like he hadn’t slept in days. So, Pat sends a quick _going back 2 bed, no breakfast 2day_ text to his sisters, before heading downstairs. He’s piling two plates with omelets and toast when Sharpie comes into the kitchen, dressed in pajama pants and a Hawks shirt, scratching his hair sleepily.

“Food.” He groans happily, making a beeline for the coffee maker and bumping Pat’s hip on the way.

Pat looks away, pouring himself a cup of orange juice and carrying everything to the breakfast bar. He doesn’t look up from his food, but he hears Sharpie sit on the stool across from him. “I-”

Pat interrupts him, finally looking up. “Food first.”

Sharpie looks like he wants to argue, and Pat frowns, jumping in again. “It’s hot and it’s rude to let it get cold.”

Sharpie scoffs. “Rude, right.” But, he picks up his fork and starts eating. In silence. 

It’s awkward as hell.

Half-way through his omelet, the silence overpowers Pat’s stomach, and he drops his fork with a sigh. “Fine. Go.”

Sharpie pauses, his fork dangling in the air, and glances at him. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to stop me?”

“Sharpie,” Pat growls.

“Right, right.” Sharpie pushes his plate away, stretching his feet out and tapping Pat’s ankle with his toes. “Sorry for showing up like that last night.”

“It was-” _surprising, confusing, too much_ “unexpected.”

“I know. I just-” Sharpie takes a deep breath. “I missed you. On the road. And when we got back to Chicago, it was weird that you weren’t there.”

“So you hopped on a plane to Buffalo?” Pat scoffs.

“Yes,” Sharpie agrees, all sincerity, and Pat gets up, reaching for Sharpie’s plate.

“I don’t wanna do this right now.”

“Peeks, I came all the way to _Buffalo_.”

Pat doesn’t answer as he makes his way into the kitchen, dumping the plates into the sink and starting the water. It’s strangely domestic, and Pat’s not even sure that he has dish soap, but the dishwasher is full and he needs something to do with his hands.

Sharpie follows him, resting against the counter and crossing his arms. “Look, this doesn’t have to be anything more than it is. I missed you. That’s all.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Pat murmurs into the sink.

“It’s really not.” Sharpie reaches out, but stops just short of touching Pat’s stomach. “I’ve already missed so much. With you. With him. And I worry about you. Jesus, Kaner, you didn’t even tell me you were leaving.”

Pat flinches, but turns off the water and turns to him. “I didn’t tell anyone I was leaving.”

“Seabs took you to the airport.” Sharpie’s voice rises in frustration.

“He’s my roommate.”

“So?” Pat raises and eyebrow and Sharpie deflates. “I know, I know. I’m just really tired.”

Pat takes another look at Sharpie, and even after a full night’s rest, he still looks road-worn. “You should sleep more.”

Sharpie shrugs. “Long road trip.” 

“Yeah.”

“We went 1 of 4.”

“I watched every game.”

“Tazer’s not very good at scoring without you making it easy for him.”

Pat snorts. “I’m telling him you said that.”

Sharpie’s eyes narrow. “That was my way of telling you-”

“I know. Just-” Pat shrugs. “Don’t say it. Okay?”

Sharpie wants to argue. Pat knows he does. But, he just sighs, rubbing his hand through his hair and pushing away from the counter. “I’m heading back to Chicago this afternoon. I’d like it if- Would you consider-?” He gestures to Pat. “Jesus, just, come home, would you? The team’s miserable without you.”

Pat’s heart twists. Sharpie isn’t saying anything that Pat didn’t know two weeks ago, sitting at the rink with Jackie and realizing that Buffalo was more memory then home, but it still means something, coming from him. Pat looks down at his feet. “I can’t, today.”

Sharpie’s shoulders drop. “Okay.”

“I mean, today.” Pat adds. “I have the house and my sisters and my doctors. I can’t just- up and leave.” Pat knows how hypocritical he sounds, but he’s going to sell it as learning. “But, soon.”

“Okay.”

Pat nods. “Yeah.”

“Oh, thank god.” Sharpie sinks back against the counter in relief. “I had a whole speech planned, but, I suck at those.”

“So true.”

“Asshole.”

Pat shrugs. “Whatever. You just begged me to come home.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

***

Pat gets back to Chicago in time for their next home game, and he watches it from the Owner’s box. It feels good, being here, in Chicago, with Rocky and Stan and acting like he has a sprained ankle or a dislocated shoulder or one of the other hundreds of short-term injuries he’s had throughout the years. 

It helps that the team wins, 3-1, making up a little bit for the road trip, and everyone seems happier in the locker room after the game. Seabs and Duncs even convince him to go out, mostly because they drove and Pat doesn’t have a way to get home without them. Sharpie makes sure that Pat’s water glass is always full, though, and he seems happier than he was a few days ago, hanging over Pat’s side and grinning into his ear.

“Hey, dude, your breath smells like beer,” Pat finally says, pushing Sharpie away, but not letting his smile fall.

“Sorry,” Sharpie mutters, but he doesn’t really pull away. “I’m glad you came back.”

“Yeah.” Pat murmurs. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

That’s the last Pat wants to say about it, in words, but Sharpie came to Buffalo, to _Buffalo_ , and Pat feels like he has to make a gesture of his own. So, after the next morning’s practice, he throws a roll of tape at Sharpie’s head to get his attention. “What ya doing for the rest of the day?”

“Ahh,” Sharpie frowns, rubbing the newly-formed red spot on his forehead. “Nothing.”

“Great.” Pat rubs his hand together. “We have plans.”

Sharpie doesn’t ask until he’s dressed and joining Pat in the parking lot. “Where we going?”

Pat shrugs, but stands next to Sharpie’s passenger door. “I’ll tell you where to go.”

“Guess I’m driving,” Sharpie mutters as he climbs in.

“Yep.” Pat fiddles with the radio. “I’m not really supposed to drive anymore.”

“That’s a myth. Pregnant women drive all the time.”

Pat shrugs, settling on a P. Diddy song. “Besides, I rode in with Duncs and Seabs.”

Sharpie rolls his eyes. “I get the feeling I’m being used. For my car.”

“And you’re decorating eye.”

“I don’t have a decorating eye.”

“Whatever.” He points to the right. “Right here.”

Sharpie swears, swerving into the right lane and cutting off a cab as he does so. “Little warning would be nice.”

Pat shrugs. He spends the rest of the drive texting with Jackie and singing along to the radio, missing a number of turns so that, by the time he points, “park there,” Sharpie is ready to dump him onto the sidewalk and leave him there. When the car stops, Pat hops out before Sharpie can shove him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he dances onto the sidewalk. “Don’t hit the pregnant guy.”

Sharpie rolls his eyes. “You only say that when you’re in trouble.”

Pat opens his mouth in fake offense. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Sharpie steps onto the sidewalk to join him. “Where are we?”

Pat pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket and squints at it. “Roscoe Village.”

“Okay,” Sharpie says slowly, glancing around.

It’s a neighborhood, complete with tree-lined streets, well-manicured gardens, and what looks like a local pub on the corner. Coming at them on the sidewalk are three women, dressed in yoga headbands and pushing baby carriages. Sharpie steps out of their way, frowning. “Why are we here?”

Pat ignores him, instead looking at the #2788 printed on the paper in his hands. “This way.” He wonders down the street, hunting for the house numbers, before he stops in front of #2788. It’s a townhouse, with stone steps and a wrought-iron railing and a small, but sufficient, garden out front. There’s a woman on the stoop, and she stands as they get there.

“You must be Pat Kane.” She holds out her hand and Pat takes it. “Cheryl.”

“Yeah.” He motions behind him. “This is Sharpie. He’s my second opinion.”

Sharpie scoffs, but Pat shushes him and follows Cheryl inside. “It’s small, for your price range, but everything is new.” She steps into the kitchen. “The kitchen was redone last year. New floors, cabinets, stainless steal appliances.”

Pat glances around. The first floor looks nice, clean, safe, with no sharp edges or other dangerous-for-babies type things. “Baby-proofed?” He asks, just to be sure. He’s suddenly grateful that his mother had sent him home with a list of these sorts of questions to ask.

“It can be,” Cheryl makes a note on her tablet. “Upstairs?” Pat nods, following Cheryl as she climbs the stairs and stops at the top, motioning to the five doors. “Two bathrooms, three bedrooms, in case,” she glances between him and Sharpie, “you plan to have more.”

“Oh, ah,” Pat feels his cheeks burn, “we’re not-” Because they’re totally not. Together, that is, and Cheryl doesn’t need to hear all about their tragic one night stand. Behind him, Sharpie grunts, and, yeah, maybe Pat’s simplifying things a little bit, but- “There won’t be more kids. But, a guest room. For my sisters, when they visit. That’s good.”

“Right,” Cheryl nods, something a bit too understanding in her eyes as she turns their attention to the rooms. 

Finally, she leads them into the backyard. There’s a porch and stairs leading into a small, fenced-in backyard. It had snowed the night before, and there’s a light dusting along the railings. Pat pushes his hands into his pockets and glances around.

“I don’t want to sound too much like a saleswoman,” Cheryl starts, and Pat nods at her to continue. “I know this is a bit smaller than you had wanted, but it’s in a safe neighborhood, still in the city. This is the best you’re going to get.”

Pat nods. It’s certainly a lot smaller than his giant house in Buffalo, but it’s a lot bigger then his apartment, bigger, even, then Duncs’ and Seabs’ place. 

“Well, I’ll leave you now. Feel free to stay as long as you’d like. You know how to reach me.” She shakes both their hands, then heads back inside.

“What do you think?” Pat asks, turning to Sharpie for the first time.

Sharpie’s eyes squint against the sun and the snow. “This is a family house.”

“Yeah.” Pat draws a tomahawk in the snow with the toe of his shoes. “There’s a nursery school around the corner. Best in the city. That’s why this place is so expensive.”

“You plan on this being permanent, then?”

“Yeah,” Pat says, again. “I want to raise him in one place, like I was. I don’t wanna be moving around.”

“That’s-” Sharpie smiles ruefully. “Good thinking ahead.”

Pat shrugs. “I’ve gotta, now. So, what do you think?” It’s a peace offering of sorts, a gesture, asking for Sharpie’s opinion, giving him a stake in their lives. 

“It’s not Trump Towers.”

“I don’t need a bachelor pad anymore.”

“No, I guess you don’t.” Sharpie swallows. “I was assuming you’d stay with Duncs and Seabs.”

“I don’t want to put them out.” Sharpie laughs, and Pat grins, understanding the hypocrisy in that statement. But, still, one pregnant man is a lot different than a carrier and his newborn son. “And, I need my own place. I need to start a life.” He glances around him. “Here. Maybe. It’s nice. And it’s actually really close to Duncs and Seabs. Maybe 10 minutes?” 

“It’s a good house.” Sharpie swallows, and Pat knows that they both understand what a gesture he’s making here. “It’d be a nice house to grow up in. Plus, the house number is 27 _88_.”

Pat puts in an offer that afternoon.

***

Two weeks before his due date, Pat puts his Trump Tower apartment on the market and moves into the townhouse in Roscoe Village. He rents a U-Haul, buys a kitchen-full of beer and pizza, and ropes the team into helping him move his stuff. He doesn’t have cable or Internet set up yet, though, so once they’re done, the guys don’t stick around long.

“I’m gonna go take a long, hot shower, before this muscle pull sets in.” Jonny whines, stretching his shoulder as he stands up.

“Wimp.”

“I didn’t see you carry any boxes.” Jonny accuses, and Pat points to his stomach. Jonny shrugs. “Don’t think that’ll keep me from siccing the trainers on you.”

“I can handle it.”

“You can,” Jonny tells him, suddenly sincere, and pulls Pat into a hug. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Pat murmurs into his neck.

“And this house is awesome. Expect me over a lot.”

Pat laughs, pulling away. “I’ll stock the fridge.”

“You better.” Jonny slips on his coat, wincing as his shoulder moves, and slips out the front door.

Back in the living room, Sharpie exchanges a glance with Pat and picks up his own coat. “I’ll leave you three to work through your shit.”

“Thanks,” Pat tells him sarcastically, but leads him to the door. “You sure you don’t wanna stay and make sure they don’t kill me?”

“I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.” Sharpie forces his feet into his boots and makes an abortive hug-like motion, before burying his hands in his coat pockets. “So, we’re on the road ‘til the 21st. I’ll see you then?”

“Sure,” Pat agrees, tamping down his rising panic at being alone, in this house, in this city, with this baby.

“Take care of yourself.”

“Always.”

Sharpie grins. “Go deal with Duncs and Seabs.”

Pat sighs, but he turns away from the door and wanders back into the living room. “So-” He starts, but then stops. They’re angry, and they have every right to be. Pat hadn’t had the heart to tell them about the house when he put the offer in weeks ago. He hadn’t even had the heart to tell them a week ago, when he closed on it. In the end, he just shrugs and offers, “I’m an asshole?”

“Yep,” Duncs confirms, but he’s smiling a little.

“Well, it’s not _new_ news.”

Duncs and Seabs both laugh this time. The house already feels like home.

***

Mark Lazerus  
@MarkLazerus

Patrick Kane on the birth of son Eric: “He’s perfect.” #Blackhawks

127 Retweets | 67 Favorites  
8:37 PM – 1 Apr 11

 

Chris Kuc  
@Chris Kuc

#Blackhawks’ Pat Kane on birth of son: “Best day of my life. Thank you to my teammates for welcoming him into the world with a win. He’s a Hawk for life.”

98 Retweets | 89 Favorites  
8:43 PM – 1 Apr 11

***

Eric David Kane is born on April 1st, exactly nine months after he was conceived. It’s probably the last thing he’ll do on time in his life, if the first few days are anything to go on. Eric isn’t an easy baby. He’s fussy about formula, he cries when anyone but Pat or Seabs holds him, and doesn’t sleep through a single night in his first month.

Sharpie will never forgive himself for playing a game in Columbus while Pat is giving birth. Even more importantly, Sharpie will never forgive himself for not settling things with Pat before their son’s birth. Because now it feels like it’s too late. 

Sharpie can’t shake the feeling that if Eric had been born a few weeks later, or if Sharpie had found out a few weeks earlier, he and Pat would have consolidated their slowly growing comfort with each other. As it stands, though, Eric’s birth shatters any developing trust between them. Pat is angry and terrified and protective, and Sharpie is increasingly frustrated by his thwarted attempts to be a father to his son.

The Hawks lose in the first round. Against the Canucks. In overtime in the seventh game. In Vancouver.

The game isn’t over until close to midnight, West Coast time, but after quick showers they all bundle onto the charter plane for the four hour trip back to Chicago. Sharpie sleeps sparingly; spending most of the time staring out the window, watching the sun come up over the clouds, feeling sorry for himself and missing Pat and Eric while Jonny snores on his shoulder. 

It’s early morning when they touch down in Chicago, and Sharpie foregoes sorrow shots in favor of driving straight to Pat’s. He lets himself in with his key, and walks as quietly as he can to Eric’s room. Eric is awake, his eyes open, and he waves his little fists as Sharpie peers into the crib.

“Hey, kiddo,” Sharpie whispers, reaching over to turn off the baby monitor before he lifts Eric into his arms. Eric struggles for a moment, but Sharpie settles them into the rocking chair and Eric curls into his chest. It’s almost all that Sharpie needs and, finally, he drifts off.

He wakes a few hours later to see Pat standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and a strange look on his face. “Hey,” Sharpie offers, his voice rough with sleep.

“Hey.” Pat doesn’t look away from Eric, who’s still sleeping against Sharpie’s shoulder. “I saw the game last night.”

“Yeah.” Sharpie’s hand tightens on Eric’s back. “Sorry for coming over like that. I just- I needed to see him.”

Pat’s silent for a long moment, but then he shakes himself. “My bed’s free. If you want.”

“I do.” And it’s true. There’s nothing more that he wants than to fall into Pat’s bed with his son and forget about hockey and the Canucks and the strange, disappointing Cup hangover that’s lasted all the way to May. 

***

Three months after Eric is born, Sharpie’s finally had enough.

It’s July 1st, and Pat’s throwing a small get-together for Eric’s three-month birthday. Most of the guys go home for the summer, but Duncs and Seabs are around, as are Turcs and a few of the others. Even Q drops in for a couple of hours, bringing with him a stuffed elephant that Eric immediately takes to. 

Sharpie spends the event nursing a beer, watching Pat try to keep one eye on Eric and one eye on the bar-b-q the entire time. Pat’s fine, but he looks tired, and it’s needless and stubborn and Sharpie makes a decision.

After everyone leaves and Eric is put to bed, he finds Pat in the kitchen, piling dishes into the dishwasher. Sighing, Sharpie crosses his arms, leaning against the counter next to him.

“This is stupid, Paddy. Aren’t we over this?”

Pat turns off the water and stands up straight, his hands on his back, cracking his neck and grimacing as his sore muscles pull and stretch. “I’m tired. Can’t we do this, I don’t know, later?”

Sharpie sighs, deep and frustrated. “When?”

“I don’t know.” Pat throws his words at Sharpie, and Sharpie frowns.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing, okay?” Pat pulls out a stool and collapses onto it, hunching over the breakfast nook. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“This – fuck, Pat, this is what I want to talk about.” Sharpie takes a step forward, hesitating for a moment, then moving close enough to press his hands into Pat’s sore, knotted neck. “I want to help. Let me take care of Eric for a night.”

Pat pushes into the touch as he bites his lip and looks over his shoulder at Sharpie. “I – I don’t know.”

“Take a night off,” Sharpie presses, with his thumbs and his words. “Go out with Jonny and Seabs and Duncs. Let loose for a bit and then get a good night’s rest.”

“That’s good.” Pat drops his chin to his chest and Sharpie doesn’t want to hope that he’s finally giving in. “But, fuck, Sharpie, I haven’t been away from him since he was _born_. I – I can’t.”

“Pat-“ Sharpie sighs, bending forward to lay a quick, barely-there kiss against Pat’s neck. “You’re a wonderful father. When are you going to realize that one night isn’t going to change that?”

Pat shakes his head, pulling away from Sharpie’s hands and Sharpie wants to scream in frustration, fists clenching at his sides. “You don’t get it, okay? I have to try so much _harder_ than most fathers. They’re watching me all the time and if I make one, just one mistake, they can just come in and take him from me. I have to be so much _more_.”

“God,” Sharpie closes his eyes. “You are. You’re the most dedicated father I’ve ever known.”

“But I’m not.” Pat shakes his head. “I’m a hockey player and I’m going to be dragging him on the road and leaving him with babysitters and _fuck_ , I’m not gonna be able to do this.”

“You are. We are. Please.” Sharpie knows that he’s practically begging and it doesn’t sit right with him, but his morals or whatever really aren’t important at the moment.

And then Pat’s looking at him, all sad and shy from under his eyelashes, and it’s the first time in months that Sharpie gets a hint that this is something more than a question of Eric and carrier rights and social services, because Pat is looking at him and he’s whispering and Sharpie has to lean forward to hear him.

“I don’t know if I can let myself love you.”

And if that’s what this is about, then Sharpie’s been playing this all wrong, because when he steps forward, taking Pat’s face in his hands, and kisses him, soft and gentle and with all the love he’s been holding in since Eric was born, Pat just whimpers and melts against him.

“I love you, Pat. I’m sorry I haven’t said it before, but I didn’t think you were ready to hear it and-” Sharpie presses their foreheads together, breathing in Pat’s little sighs. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t – um, I didn’t think you-“ Pat bites his lip, for the millionth time in Sharpie’s presence, but this time Sharpie can press his lips against the spot, soothing it with his tongue.

“I never thought I could, but, Jesus, Pat, you and Eric are all I ever think about. I look at him and I’ve never seen something more perfect, and you gave me that.” Sharpie shakes his head, pulling back a couple of inches so that he can look into Pat’s face. “I’ll never forgive myself for making you go through that alone. Fuck, Pat, months where you could have been hurt, on the ice, in an alley, and it was Duncs and Seabs watching over you, and it should have been _me_.”

Pat’s eyes go wide and, yeah, Sharpie didn’t really know he was that angry, either, but then Pat’s shaking his head and tears are welling up in his eyes and he’s pulling away to wipe at them angrily. “It’s my fault. I never told you. I didn’t trust. After-“ He swallows. “After everything, I thought you’d hate me for what I was, and then after I couldn’t go through with the abortion, I knew you’d blame me for ruining your life and I couldn’t have you hate me, I couldn’t bare it, and it was easier to just not tell you than to have you look at me with disgust.”

“Disgust?” Sharpie snorts. “Never.”

“I was-” Pat wrinkles his nose. “Fat.”

“You were beautiful.” Sharpie shakes his head. “Even in the hospital, you were pale and pregnant and terrified and I was shocked, but, no, you were beautiful and I could never hate you. Fuck, I’d been falling in love with you ever since that first night.”

“Since-?” Pat shakes his head. “What?”

And Sharpie hates himself a little for not having this conversation before now. He went months ignoring Pat and pretending that everything was fine when he so clearly was not fine and, apparently, Sharpie still hasn’t learned his lesson, ‘cause it’s been months since he found out and months since Eric was born, and Pat still doesn't understand the whole story. 

Sharpie steps closer again, crowding Pat against the counter and not giving him the chance to escape, physically or mentally. “Yeah, since that night.” Sharpie shakes his head, grinning. “You were so hot. I’ve never been able to go like that before, but you’re so fucking hot it’s been killing me to pretend that that night meant less than it did.”

“Patrick, I – I don’t understand.” Pat shakes his head, leaning as far away from Sharpie as he can. “You were running away from Bur-”

Sharpie nods. “Yeah, I was. And you were running away from Jonny.” It’s not a question, but he waits for Pat to nod anyway. “But, I didn’t go back to him. And I started to watch you in the locker room. How didn’t you notice?”

“I- I-“

“No, let me talk.” Pat shuts his mouth and Sharpie nods, smiling. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice that you were in trouble. I was too busy pretending not to notice you that I guess I forgot who I was looking at. And then, that night, when you were hurt – fuck,” he drops his eyes to his feet, swallowing hard, “Seabs yelled something about you being pregnant and I knew and I’ve never been so angry and I’ve never been so scared. I never told you where I was that night, why I didn’t get to the hospital until dawn?”

Pat reaches out a hand to rest under Sharpie’s chin and Sharpie looks up to see Pat shake his head. Sharpie smiles, small and sad. “I was walking. For hours, as my life flashed before my eyes. The life I had, with hockey and money and one-night stands. And then I thought about a different life, one with you and the baby and my heart never hurt like that with Bur, no matter how much I wanted him. I longed for you.”

“I didn’t know.”

It’s a whisper, barely a whisper, and Sharpie smiles. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

“Why?”

“Because-“ And this is the part that still hurts. “Because you love Jonny, and I’m so _angry_ at you because we have a family. You and I. And there’s nothing more I can offer you and, still, you love him.”

“No. No.” Pat presses, forcing Sharpie to look at him. “Jonny and I-” Pat swallows. “We might have been something, long ago, but not anymore.”

“You trust him.” Sharpie’s voice feels rough, scratchy. “You don’t trust me.”

Pat shakes his head. “I don’t trust anyone. Patrick, I-“ Pat smiles and it’s shy and open and Sharpie feels the fear flowing off him in waves. “I’m a carrier. I’m hated and feared and that was okay when it was just me, but it’s not anymore. It’s Eric and I’m so scared for him. And I’m scared for you, too, ‘cause you’re not safe if you’re associated with me.”

“Pat-“

Pat shakes his head. “It’s not about trust. I- I couldn’t handle it if something happened to you. And, in the end, whether you love me or not, that doesn’t matter. Not as long as you’re safe.”

Sharpie shakes his head, and he doesn't have hormones as an excuse, but his eyes are tearing up. “It’s all that matters.”

“No, no-” Pat’s shaking his head, his curls bouncing against his forehead and Sharpie closes the distance between them to kiss him. He groans, pulling Pat to him and their lips taste salty. When they pull apart, their cheeks are red and their lips are wet and swollen and Pat’s still shaking his head. “I can’t lose you.”

“I can’t lose you, either.” Sharpie whispers, tracing Pat’s cheek with his fingertips. “But it doesn’t matter if I never have you.”

“I-”

“I love you.”

Pat just looks at him, tears in his eyes and wetting Sharpie’s fingers and Sharpie’s heart is breaking even as Pat whispers, “I’m so scared.”

Sharpie just presses a closed-mouth kiss to his lips, before taking his hand and pulling him away, out of this little corner of the kitchen. Sharpie takes the baby monitor with his free hand, even in this moment not forgetting what it is that is drawing them so importantly together, and he leads Pat to the bedroom.

Pat’s bedroom looks exactly as he’d expect, all the black sheets and mahogany furniture of a bachelor pad. Except now, when Sharpie presses Pat back against these sheets, they make him look scared and tired and like the strongest man Sharpie has ever known and he has to take a breath, a moment to will his dick to get on board with this being slow and gentle and whatever Pat needs.

“Sharpie?”

Sharpie shakes his head, bracing his hand on either side of Pat’s head and rolling his hips ‘til they’re both groaning. “Fuck, Pat, you’re so hot.”

Pat scoffs. “I’m not. I still have pregnancy fat and it’s been so long that I’m gonna last all of five minutes.”

Sharpie grins. “That’s hot.”

“Fuck you.” But he’s laughing, pushing at Sharpie’s shoulders and rolling them over, so that Pat’s hovering over him, knees on either side of Sharpie’s hips and pressing his erection into the hollow of Sharpie’s thighs. “God, Patrick, I’ve been dreaming about this for so long.”

“Really?” Sharpie’s eyes are twinkling, hands going to Pat’s hips and slipping just under his waistband to rub at the smooth, warm skin there. Pat frowns, but Sharpie leans up to whisper in his ear, breath hot and warm, “Me too.”

Pat shivers, his whole body pressing against Sharpie’s and Sharpie doesn't care that they’re both still dressed, ‘cause he’s never felt something like this. He can’t think about anything but Pat’s warm weight above him, over him, pressing down on him, and Sharpie wants to touch him everywhere, wants to take his time, except it’s been so long for both of them and they’ve been wanting this for so long and their bodies are aching for it.

Sharpie slips a hand up under Pat’s shirt, kneading his way up to Pat’s shoulder blade and waiting there until Pat nods permission, lifting up just long enough for Sharpie to rid him of the piece of clothing. And then Pat’s pressing down on him again and Sharpie’s never felt something so warm and he groans, arching his hips and pressing his jean-clothed erection to Pat’s bare stomach and Pat hisses.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sharpie whispers, nipping at Pat’s ear in apology.

Pat answers by sitting back, pressing his ass against Sharpie’s crotch, and grinning as Sharpie groans and grasps at Pat’s hips, pressing him down and fucking up into his ass. “Pat, Pat, Pat,” his name comes out like a stream of curses and Pat stills. He just looks at Sharpie, something in his eyes that Sharpie can’t quite decipher, and then he’s tracing Sharpie’s body with his hands, slowly, calmly, as if he’s afraid that, if he goes fast, he’ll miss a spot. 

He slips his palm under Sharpie’s shirt, rubbing against his flat stomach and Sharpie inhales, forcing Pat’s hand higher, until Sharpie’s shirt is bunched at his armpits and he rises up, allowing Pat to pull his shirt over his head, and then Pat’s back to exploring his chest. He leans forward, mouth finding his collarbone and that spot that drives him crazy and Sharpie’s sure that there’s going to be a bruise there come morning.

Pat shifts, moving down to straddle Sharpie’s thighs so that he can tongue his nipples, long, wet presses of his tongue that have Sharpie struggling not to buck him off. His eyes are dark and glassy and he pulls Pat up to kiss him. “God, I love you.”

Pat kisses him, tongue and lips and warmth, as he tilts to the side and Sharpie gets the hint, switching their positions ‘til he’s braced over Pat, holding himself up with one shaky hand as the other drops down their bodies to flick open the button on Pat’s pants.

Sharpie kneels up, his heart aching at Pat’s whimper, but it’s just long enough to rid them both of their pants and then he’s back, stretching out along Pat’s body and it’s skin on skin and Pat’s dick is already leaking across his stomach and there’s an embarrassing little bead at the head of his own erection and he’s really not gonna last long at all.

Especially not when Pat bends his knees, wrapping them around Sharpie’s waist and arching up, pressing their chests together and their lips together and his hands are in Sharpie’s hair, and all they can do is set a rhythm so that their dicks rub slowly, tantalizingly against each other, slick and wet and Pat growls in frustration, his hips stuttering, and then he’s gasping and whimpering and shaking and Sharpie kisses him through it, soothing him with his hands and his body until Pat stills and sighs. 

Sharpie raises himself on his elbow, reaching down and wrapping his fist around his dick. He feels fingers on his chin and he looks up, accepting the kiss Pat gives him and he’s coming, long and hard against both their stomachs.

“Hot,” Sharpie tells him, decisive and sure and Pat chuckles.

“I love you.”

It’s the first time he’s said it first, and Sharpie grins, kissing him until their skin starts to pimple in the cold and the drying sweat. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers, hopping off the bed and getting a warm washcloth from the bathroom. He cleans Pat slowly, meticulously, and Pat’s eyes are closed when there’s crying over the baby monitor.

Sharpie stands up, but Pat’s fingers on his wrist stop him. “Get cleaned up, I’ve got him.”

“Pat-” But Pat is already out of the bedroom and Sharpie’s stomach drops. He brushes the washcloth over his own skin, shivering as the cold settles in, and he’s shaking when he hears Pat enter the room.

“Patrick?” 

Sharpie looks up, his sharp words dying in his throat as he sees Pat standing above him, Eric cradled on his shoulder. Pat frowns. “You’re shivering.”

“It’s nothing. What-”

Pat shrugs. “He sleeps better with people.” And Pat’s climbing into bed, laying Eric on his back in the middle before curling up on one side. 

Sharpie feels something akin to awe as he curls up on the other side and lays a quick kiss to his son’s forehead before stretching his arm out and resting a hand on Pat’s hip. Pat pulls the blankets up around them and then he’s looking at Sharpie and Sharpie knows that he didn’t hide his little freak out as well as he would have liked.

“I’m trying,” Pat whispers.

And that’s all that matters. Because Sharpie isn’t going to erase years of hurt and loneliness and prejudice in one night, but as Pat rests his palm on Eric’s chest and settles back against the pillows, Sharpie knows that he’s going to try, too, for as long as it takes.

He whispers, breath close enough to ruffle Pat’s curls. “Sleep. I’ll be here in the morning.”


End file.
